


What We Have Wrought

by tristinai



Series: Actiones secundum fidei [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Casual Sex, Choking, Dorian/Farrow, Dorian/OMC - Freeform, Drunken sex, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Jealous behavior, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Self-Destructive Behavior, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension, cullrian - Freeform, hints of Adoribull, hints of Solavellan, irrational violence, lovemaking, mentions of purchasing prostitutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: After the way things ended with Cullen, Dorian falls back on his old vices.





	1. Malice

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my laptop for two months now and if I don't start posting it, I'll never get around to editing the rest of it. I've gone back and forth on the direction of this verse and I think from this point onward, it goes far more AU than even I had initially conceived. It was written, however, with the canon vices of the characters in mind (i.e. Dorian struggles with alcoholism, as suggested in-game and in the second Thedas volume, Cullen with lyrium addiction) and its their vices that trigger a lot of the toxic behavior in their relationship. Please adhere to the warnings in the tags since some of what is in this series may trigger or upset readers.

The next few days were a blur for Dorian as he set out on a crusade to continue his drunken bender. He threw back the many goblets of wine poured over coin tossed haphazardly on the bar, Cabot's glower growing more rigid in its disapproval the more Dorian struggled to stand on his own two feet. And when the dwarf had the audacity to cut him off, the mage raided the Inquisitor's private collection, hidden beneath the lower levels of the keep, where he could drink himself to a stupor in peace. He wanted no one's pity, only to forget the scar that marked his ex-lover's lips, the trail of freckles that lined his shoulders, the feel of his embrace, warm breath tickling the back of his neck...

 

He wanted to forget. And somewhere in his inebriated head, he connected the dots. There was only one way to rid his flesh of Cullen's phantom touch.

 

It was how he ended up bent over a crate, trousers and smalls pulled down past his knees, moaning as some faceless soldier fucked him senselessly. Or was it a scout? A servant? Dorian couldn't even remember what the man looked like. All that mattered was that he had jumped at the mage's slurred invitation. The rest of the details were irrelevant.

 

But somewhere in the haze of the morning light, when dawn crept over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of purple fading into gold, Dorian awoke, bent over in the same position he had been left, rear bared to the bite of morning frost. He could feel the dried cum clinging to his thighs, felt his nose wrinkle from the spattering of vomit on his tunic. The stubble from his unkempt face itched irritably from neglect and it was with trembling fingers that he made himself decent again, ready to march headfirst into the only solution to correct the pitiful state he had awoken in.

 

The last of the Dragon's Piss went down worse than the Vint-9 he had finished the night before.

 

“Creators, Dorian, what do you think you're doing?!”

 

Caught red-handed, but at least not bare-assed, raiding the Inquisitor's private collection was not how the Tevinter imagined his morning would start.

 

“Seeking inspiration,” he said, swaying on his feet.

 

With a swiftness he wasn't quite able to follow, Lavellan snatched the empty bottle from his hands, eyes narrowed in a look that often meant a quick demise to any who crossed the rogue. But Dorian would hardly be intimidated by the only person he considered a real friend in this Maker forsaken keep and crossed his arms over his chest, hoping he looked just as terrifying. His surprised burp did little to help his image.

 

“And what sort of _inspiration_ does one possibly find drinking themselves stupid this early in the morning?”

 

“Some of Thedas' most foremost scholars have come across revolutionary discoveries under the influence of good mead,” Dorian began, laying on charm so thick, half the words came out a garbled mess. “Though how anyone can find such inspiration with this horse piss you southerner's drink boggles the mind. Why, just the other day, our dear Madame De Fer offered what many in Orlais consider the most decadent of wine—”

 

“Dorian—”

 

“—and I swear, it was like being subjected to that shit Varric once had me drink—”

 

“Dorian—”

 

“—most vile stuff, would not recommend. I've had better wine served in some dive in the Liberati district of Minrathous than—”

 

“DORIAN!”

 

She gripped his tunic tightly, gloved fingers yanking him down until he was eye level with her, nose wrinkling distastefully as she caught a whiff of his breath, but otherwise looking ready to murder him should he not stop his incessant rambling.

 

“You are to march back to your quarters, clean yourself up, sleep off whatever _inspired_ you to drink half of Skyhold—and don't you dare deny it, Cabot's told me all about the spectacle you've made of yourself in the tavern,” she snapped, jabbing him in his chest when he attempted to interject, “and be suited up by noon. We're going to finish this fight with Corypheus and I need my best mage at my side.”

 

“...I thought Solas was your best mage,” he mumbled, earning himself another withering glare.

 

“Don't test my patience, Pavus.”

 

She half dragged him out of the room, guiding him towards the stairs to the upper levels. When she was satisfied that he could make it to his room on his own, she loosened her grip on his arm, ignoring his cursing in Tevene.

 

“When this business with Corypheus is over, you and I are going to have a long talk,” she promised.

 

What should have been an invitation to an open heart-to-heart sounded more like a death threat.

 

Well...fuck.

 

Not wanting to upset the Herald any more than she already was—even drunk, he could see the tension in her stiff posture, knew the weight of everything that fell on their shoulders when sobriety hit him—Dorian did as he was told.

 

But a few hours later, his sour mood had hardly improved. He was marching alongside the Inquisitor and the Inner Circle towards what could possibly be one of the last days of his existence. And he was stuck in the middle of the Frostback mountains, where the damned air was too cold, the men too gruff to be pretty (certain Commanders excluded), and his head pounding fiercely in the aftermath of his three day drunken escapade. What a fucking horrible time to die.

 

_Fasta vass, I'm too hungover for this._

 

* * *

By some miracle, all of them survived.

 

Dorian couldn't wrap his head around how any of them avoided being crushed when the temple fell from the sky. But all of the Inner Circle was here, minus a certain elf, and now it was time to celebrate.

 

And kaffas, could he not get his hands on wine quick enough.

 

He had avoided the Inquisitor in the days it took to get back to the keep but there was a general despondence about her, making it easier. He knew about her growing closeness with Solas, had even had a handful of conversations where she confessed to the attraction that had developed over time. So when Solas had disappeared after the fight, Lavellan had withdrawn into herself, lips drawn in a grim line as they made camp. That she awoke every morning, eyes red-rimmed, was noticeable to all in the party but drew no comment out of respect for the Herald.

 

What her and the reclusive elf had was tragic in that it hadn't blossomed into anything. And didn't Dorian know how bitter it was to bury the _could have beens_ and _almosts_ behind a facade of indifference.

 

Seeing Commander Cullen at the other end of the main hall was a painful reminder of how empty his goblet was.

 

Many drinks later, Dorian was drunk enough to forget why he wanted to drink in the first place. He ended up in some conversation he could hardly follow with a pretty elvhen Inquisition scout—Fallon? Farron? Farrow?—and, inevitably, one thing led to another. The elf had shyly accepted Dorian's invitation, blushed at everything the mage offered to do to him with honeyed words that caressed like silk against the elf's pointed ears. Seduction came easy to Dorian and it had been years since he had an elf, not since his days of frequenting the brothels in some of Minrathous' less savory districts.

 

But the way towards his quarters had one obstacle: an exhausted Inquisition Commander standing awkwardly as far away from the festivities as he could. Everything about his posture told of how he hadn't wanted to be there, scratching at the back of his neck, watching with disdain as everyone else enjoyed themselves. But with Josephine fluttering about, preening the nobles who had offered their support to the Inquisition's cause, even Dorian knew the hell fire she would rain on Cullen should he so much as attempt to sneak away.

 

Arm flung around Farrow's shoulders, the gesture appearing as a friendly attempt at camaraderie, though was more about keeping Dorian from falling flat on his face, the mage guided the elf towards the side exit, ignoring the dull ache that erupted when he caught the Commander's gaze.

 

It may have been pain that flickered over Cullen's face but understanding set his expression to indifference that somehow felt more like a cold slap.

 

“I see Lord Pavus is unable to walk himself back to his quarters,” the Commander remarked.

 

It was said offhandedly but Dorian knew Cullen's voice as well as he knew his own, heard the dip in inflection that let him know it was dripping with judgment.

 

It didn't stop Farrow from flushing, dipping his head in subjugation even as his arm remained secure around Dorian's waist.

 

Cullen could take his judgment and shove it in places no longer worth the mage's touch.

 

“Lieutenant Farrow is ever so kind, offering to assist an old veteran back to his bed,” Dorian said, before the elf could respond to Cullen's comment. “I should commend you, Commander. You've trained these young soldiers quite well. Not only do they carry themselves with an air of dignity deserving of the Inquisition, I must say that they have quite a _stamina_ about them, unmatched by old geezers such as ourselves.”

 

He winked playfully at Cullen, voice dropping to an enticing purr around the veiled insult. It had the Commander's cheeks coloring in anger, his lips in a tight line. But he wouldn't give himself away before an audience, ever cautious of keeping up appearances.

 

“I must admit to my ignorance of the Lieutenant's capabilities,” Cullen replied smoothly. “I am certain that _stamina_ of his can be put to better use. Lieutenant Farrow, I would like you to relieve Ritts of her battlement patrol duties at the end of the hour, once you have assisted Lord Pavus back to his room.”

 

Dorian could see the tells of a smirk in the quirking of Cullen's lips, wanted nothing more than to gossip about all the lascivious ways he had brought the Commander to his knees, in a rare moment of vindictive fury. But he was better than that, kept a bored air of nonchalance, in the Fereldan's presence.

 

“I—uh—yes, Commander,” Farrow said, saluting with his free hand.

 

Once in the corridor, the elf released a breath Dorian hadn't realized he had been holding.

 

“By the Maker, what did I do to get on his bad side?” Farrow wondered aloud.

 

Guiltily, Dorian could think of a handful of things done and said over the course of the night that made such a fate befall his soon-to-be bedfellow, but knew better than to implicate the elf any further in the ongoing game of misery him and the Commander were trapped in.

 

“I'd pay little mind to whatever mood the Commander's worked himself into,” Dorian said, opening the door to his room. Pulling Farrow inside with him, he pressed the elf to the door, leaning down to kiss along his jawline. The elf was already half-hard against the mage's thigh, hands clutching Dorian's robe, breathless sigh spilling from his lips.

 

Lips teasing the edge of the elf's ear, Dorian whispered, “And don't worry about your patrol duty. I need less than hour to do all the things I'd promised.”

 

* * *

The continuation of his self-destructive binge continued after that night. Over the following weeks, Dorian found every excuse the imbibe alcohol, woke up in beds not his own, threw up what little food he consumed, and continued the poisonous cycle. When Lavellan attempted to have him help her with closing a few remaining rifts in the Frostback Basin, she could only voice her disgust at the pathetic state she found him in, made him promise to clean himself up before she returned (promise under duress by knife point, that is), and, much to his anger, had Cabot continue his prohibition against Dorian. The mage had to resort to stealing whatever bottles of wine he found in the kitchens, sometimes even paying soldiers to sneak him pints from the Herald's Rest. That many of these exchanges ended with blow jobs and some good rutting was only benefiting everyone involved.

 

He wasn't sure if rock bottom was Blackwall stumbling over Dorian entangled with a nondescript recruit in the barn, mumbling something about needing to gouge his beady eyes out with a shake of his head. The warden was hardly on anyone's favorite list after the shit he pulled in Orlais and even Josephine, who had at times seemed enamored by him, was no longer speaking with Thom Rainier or whatever he wished to call himself. So Dorian paid no mind over being discovered in such a state, not even an apology as he dressed and stumbled back to his room for the half bottle of wine hidden under his bed.

 

Maybe rock bottom was the pity fuck he got from Bull, the qunari sighing and muttering in qunlat as a drunken Dorian all but begged to suck his cock. Dorian has had closeted magisters pursue him for the chance to get beneath his robes, has even paid for sex from a handsome face when in the right establishments that offered those kinds of services. But he had never begged for it, like a mabari bitch in heat, so desperate to taste cum or be filled when his sources of absconded alcohol ran dry and everything reminded him of _him._

 

“Caresses like fire, hands warm to the touch, lips split by winter's bite but tasting of autumn in the dead season's shadow.”

 

Dorian cringed as the boy appeared behind him, following the mage as he made his walk of shame back to his room.

 

“Eyes once soft, now hard. 'Does he miss me?' I want to ask but I'm too afraid.”

 

“Will you just sod off already!”

 

But when Dorian looked back, Cole was already gone.

 

It was with misery that he moodily tossed out the remaining empty bottles in his room, forced himself to have a good look in the mirror at the beard that had grown in, hair grown longer and more disheveled, and made the mature choice to actually do something about it. He smelled of the kossith's cum, looked worse than what Lavellan had stumbled upon weeks before, and with his forced sobriety, could only ignore the sorry state he was in for so long.

 

Scissors in hand, he trimmed away the long hairs, shaved the overgrown stubble to the smoothness he preferred, and cleansed away the taste of alcohol on his breath. It felt good to be himself again, to see a reflection that satisfied his vanity, staring back at him, albeit with a few more lines and eyes bloodshot from the sleep he had so eagerly ignored in his binge.

 

But even his vanity couldn't silence the mantra in his head, of the harsh words that had been spoken a month before, the rejection that made his chest hurt each time he caught a glimpse of golden hair coming to and from the tower.

 

Drink. He needed drink.

 

Throwing his brief flirtation with self care out the window, Dorian turned on his heals, ready to march back to the Herald's Rest, maybe see if Krem could be persuaded to sneak him some alcohol under Cabot's nose, when a knock on his door stopped him.

 

He paused, trepidation keeping him from opening it. He knew who he wanted to be on the other side of it, hope igniting at the possibilities, burning the last of _could have been_ into what they should be. The voice that reached through the oak, however, was not one he was expecting.

 

“Dorian? Are you there?”

 

He was more surprised than disappointed when he opened his door to let the Inquisitor in.

 

“You've cleaned up, I see.”

 

But the once over was hardly approving, the hint of chastisement in her voice. Dorian could guess that someone had tipped her off to his behavior while she was away and given her friendship with a certain Bull he'd mounted the night before, he knew the guilty party immediately.

 

“Perfection is a constant work in progress, though my superior breeding has given me quite the advantage. I hardly need to commit the same time and effort as you southern folk to look this good.”

 

Th exasperated sigh was the only response he got, though he could note the telltale lifting of her lips in a hidden smile. Something about it seemed difficult, fragile, and it made him take a good look at his friend's face for the first time in months. The war had its effect on all of them, aging some in the Inquisition more than others. But each bore new lines drawn into their faces, new scars that told tales of near death battles, and Lavellan, despite her youth, was as victim to stress and time as the rest of them. But even worse, the air of sadness that followed her had diminished no less in her time away.

 

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, his flippancy replaced with real concern.

 

He could see how she tried to smile but already her red-rimmed eyes watered with a fresh flow of unshed tears, the shift in demeanor no more shocking than her ability to command respect, despite her small stature. Ellana Lavellan wore her heart on her sleeve, carried herself with a sincerity that made her shit at The Game in the Winter Palace but as dear to the mage as the sibling he never had. Even before the first tear slipped, Dorian knew what she needed and was already pulling her tightly into his embrace.

 

It seemed that whatever will she had to carry on pretending was cast aside in his arms, sob ripping from her throat as he just held her, tears soaking the fresh robe he had put on before her arrival. For a long time, neither said a word, content to simply hold each other as life beyond his room went on at Skyhold, it's occupants unsuspecting as the Inquisitor finally took her moment to mourn the loss of her _could have been_.

 

* * *

Lavellan stayed the night, a runner sent to fetch food for the two when mutual hunger became too compelling to ignore. Though exhausted from her return just that morning, the Inquisitor initiated that discussion she had promised the month before, spilling all the worry and shattered hope she had carried with her since the final battle. For once, Dorian wasn't leading the conversation, content enough to be the ear that listened, the shoulder that offered a place to rest her head when sadness made it feel too heavy to lift. It made him realize how much he missed these talks, once an important part of his life at Skyhold, abandoned all too easily after he started seeing Cullen secretly for fear of accidentally confiding truths best kept to himself.

 

He thought he was in the clear, Lavellan too self-absorbed in her own despair to pick up on his, as they lay curled up beside each other on his bed. She still smelled of campfire, of days marching through the unforgiving snow back to the keep, but Dorian hardly minded, just content to be shown affection from someone who genuinely cared about him, platonic as their cuddling was. But she hadn't earned the title of best friend by not knowing his tells, by not being able to read the between the thin cracks in the layers he built to shield himself from being scrutinized by those not close to him.

 

“You've changed,” she said, quietly. Worry was heavy in her voice. “You've been like this for a while now.”

 

Dorian's laugh sounded more somber to his ears than he had expected. “That obvious, is it?”

 

“Dorian...”

 

It took little pressure for the truth to come out, Dorian needing some release for all the pent up wretchedness he'd felt in the last month. Many details were left out, particularly the specifics on how it ended, just that it did, and though he felt a little guilt at adding yet another secret to the many the Inquisitor kept, he knew she maintained a strong friendship with all in the Inner Circle because of her ability to keep their confidences. She was a little surprised at his choice in partner, then a little bitter that he hadn't confided in her sooner.

 

“You can trust me, Dorian. You do know that, right?”

 

“It wasn't so much an issue of trust as it was in respecting the privacy of the parties involved,” Dorian pointed out. “I highly doubt the Commander would appreciate having his liaisons made the subject of gossip between the Herald and her pet Tevinter, confident as I am that this will stay between us.”

 

“Well, you are my favorite pet,” she teased, attempting to ruffle his hair.

 

He playfully swatted her hand away, though he knew his coif must be in a state of dishevelment, given the way he was resting his head on his pillow. “You're most handsome pet, one that doesn't appreciate having his head patted like some common Fereldan mutt. I have half a mind to get you a mabari, if only to save my hair from future assaults.”

 

Held up by her elbow, she regarded him seriously for a moment, eyes going soft. “You miss him, don't you?”

 

He had a series of scripted denials, insults, digressions all waiting on the tip of his tongue, a personal arsenal to halt this conversation before it could go further. But maybe the month of inebriation was finally wearing on him, making him no longer willing to fight the tide of hurt that overwhelmed him at the thought of everything he'd lost.

 

“I do.”

 

The admission was simple, quiet. But it made his voice crack, the only tell he would give since he refused to crumble into a weeping, broken mess, even in the company of his best friend.

 

“Listen, Dorian, there's something about the Commander you need to know...”

 

* * *

Dorian wasn't quite sure how to feel when he received a message a few days later, inquiring on his availability for an impromptu meeting in the Commander's office:

 

_Lord Pavus,_

 

_There is an urgent matter that requires your immediate attention. Should it not be to your inconvenience, may I suggest stopping by my office after dinner._

 

_I await your response._

 

_Respectfully,_

_CSR_

 

It irked him how polite but impersonal this letter was, how Cullen waited weeks after strategic avoidance to reach out to him. Part of him was still angry at how easily the Commander had confided in Lavellan, a woman he hardly conversed with outside of the war council, over the man he had shared his bed with. Another part worried that this was the issue that would be discussed, that somehow Cullen got wind of the broken confidence and was ready to tear into Dorian for invading his privacy. Still, a more bitter side of Dorian wondered why he should even care.

 

Curiosity getting the best of wounded pride, his response was swift and curt.

 

_Commander,_

 

_I shall meet you at my convenience._

 

_DP_

 

That it was left intentionally vague gave the mage at least a bit of vindictive satisfaction. It lacked the platitudes and inane inquiries he was used to filling his letters with, the usual flourish of his script replaced with neutral, blocked text that was almost an assault to his eyes. If Dorian had sent a letter like this to Maevaris, he could imagine the months of silence that would follow, the iciness in her tone should they ever happen upon each other in public, for conveying such a slight by saying nothing at all. Maybe it would reach the Commander's notice but Dorian wondered if the Fereldan even had the aptitude for lettering to interpret the insult on paper.

 

The call to dinner couldn't come soon enough. Dorian conversed briefly with Lavellan and Sera about the old Tevinter architecture they had found in the Frostback Basin. With the Inquisitor planning to depart in a few days and Vivienne feigning little interest in returning to the lands of the Avvar, the discoveries piqued his interest and for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to leaving Skyhold to explore parts of Thedas he has yet been to.

 

He returned to his room shortly after, having only picked at his plate. He still felt quite ill, the lack of alcohol in his body not only making him crave a sip of wine but also feel nauseous without it. His fingers trembled far worse than they usually did after coming off a prolonged period of drinking but he forced himself to focus on getting ready to meet the Commander.

 

He tried throwing on one of his older robes, only to replace it with a newer one. Dorian then ruffled his hair a little, going for sexy and disheveled, then mentally chastised himself for caring too much. It didn't stop him from taming it back to its signature coif, slicked in place with a combination of perfumed oils he often used. If he looked anything other than his usual well-preened self, it would send the wrong message to Cullen, one of forced nonchalance. And forced nonchalance would mean he still cared.

 

Then again, how many times had he caught quick glimpses of the ex-templar stalking the grounds at night, casting glowers at whoever Dorian dragged into a dark corner of the ramparts to suck off in his month of recklessness? There were at least a few instances he knew the Commander had seen him and the state he had been in was a far cry from how cleaned up he'd been in the last twenty four hours. Maybe showing up like this would make the Cullen think Dorian was trying to impress him?

 

Growing restless and irritated, Dorian threw down the stick of kohl he'd been reapplying and decided to hell with it. Let the man think what he will.

 

But it was easy to pretend Dorian didn't give a nug's ass what the Commander thought when he was stalking across the ramparts, bitter at not being able to slide onto a stool in the Herald's Rest and settle his frustration with a tankard of mead. Lavellan would murder him if she caught him with alcohol again any time soon and Cabot, vigilant bastard that he was, still refused to serve the Tevinter.

 

By the time he reached the side entrance to the Commander's office, his hand was frozen mid-knock, the dull void in his chest flaring with the knowledge of who waited on the other side. He wanted to go back to his room, send an excuse the next day via letter, and put the avoidance of his ex-lover at the top of his priority list until he departed for the Frostback Basin.

 

But Dorian swallowed the urge to flee, knocked with the certainty of a man who owned every room he walked into, and hardly waited for an acknowledgment before he was striding inside.

 

One look at the Commander told him everything the Inquisitor said had been true: he was a lot paler, thinner, than Dorian remembered, the lines around his eyes as stark as they had been during their last fight. He wore no armor but dressed to protect against the cool draft ever present in his quarters, clad in a thicker tunic and trousers that appeared to fit looser than they should. Though the weight of all they survived still seemed to sit on his shoulders, his eyes were like steel when they regarded the mage, sharper than they'd been in a while. His lips twitched in what could have been a scowl but he pulled them into a thin line, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“Lord Pavus,” he greeted, with a nod of his head.

 

Dorian stopped in front of the Commander's desk, assuming a similar posture, nose tipped upward to give the impression of height he didn't have on the taller Fereldan. “Commander Cullen.”

 

“I see you are in...less celebratory spirits this evening.”

 

“It gets dreadfully dull being the only drunkard in a tavern,” Dorian said, smooth voice --- for embellishment. “Why, I recall having this remarkable moment of clarity somewhere between relieving my stomach of that awful home brew Bull swears by and cleansing my palate with this fruity concoction Dalish had me try that maybe making an absolute spectacle of myself would hurt, more than repair, the misguided assumptions you Southern barbarians have of Tevinter.”

 

“So...your current sobriety is due to an epiphany you had while imbibing contraband after the keep had been given strict orders to prevent you from obtaining anything alcoholic in nature?”

 

Dorian frowned. “Well, when you put it that way—”

 

“Dorian.”

 

It wasn't fair how the sound of his name brought a mistiness to his eyes, his throat feeling too thick to form words. It wasn't fair that he liked how his name sounded with that voice, the voice of a man who now only looked at him with the same disappointment as Halward Pavus.

 

“You know there's a reason I called on you,” Cullen continued.

 

“Your note said as much.”

 

“You know how I dislike skirting around an issue,” and really, were Dorian a man of less refinement, he would snort at the remark, the Commander having proven on too many an occasion to 'skirt' around issues of a delicate nature, “so you'll have to excuse my bluntness at approaching this head on. There is concern over your recent activities involving some of the men in my charge.”

 

It sounded very much like something Magister Pavus would say and already had Dorian's mood evolving into something quite dour. “By _activities_ , I am to assume you mean those of a sexual nature.”

 

The Commander's ears reddened, though his expression became something darker than the mage had expected. “I—that is—yes.”

 

A bitter sound left his throat. Dorian couldn't be certain if it was meant to be a laugh or a curse. “Really, Commander, I had no idea that homosexual activity was banned in the Inquisition.”

 

“That's not what this is—”

 

“Really? Because it seems you're so afraid of tarnishing your military's reputation—”

 

“You're not listening to what I'm—”

 

“And isn't that so ironic, when we both know how much you like it when I suck your co—”

 

“Maker's breath, will you let me explain!”

 

The loud smack of his palm slapping the surface of the table made Dorian flinch, only temporarily making him waver in the rage building like a crescendo within his veins. He could see the way Cullen's eyes shone with contained anger, face red, stance ready to pounce on Dorian should the mage give the ex-templar any reason to earn his ire. It was terrifying in a way Dorian had never known a templar to be, the knowledge that this man had in his arsenal a means to dismantle Dorian's only means of defending himself, should it ever come down to that. But a more perverse side wanted to provoke that wrath, poke the lion, see how far he could push.

 

The revelation hit him like a dispel, as jarring as having his casting interrupted.

 

“You're jealous.”

 

And, oh, wasn't that just satisfying, knowing that the man who had discarded him without a second care couldn't stand the thought of anyone else putting their hands on the mage.

 

It took Cullen a moment for his shock to retreat, lips curling in a scowl. “This is hardly the time for your misguided assumptions.”

 

“Misguided?” Dorian said, pausing to laugh coldly. “The only thing misguided is your presumption that you have any authority over me. Last I can recall, I'm not one of your precious, docile circle mages. I will not accept a life of forced celibacy because my proclivities upset you.”

 

“No one's asking you to be celibate!” Cullen said, his frustration reaching a boiling point. “All I ask is that you consider how it looks when one of the Inner Circle becomes that...familiar...with so many of our soldiers!”

 

“Iron Bull must have enjoyed this lecture as much as I have,” Dorian shot back, sarcastically, “seeing as he sleeps with anything and everything ginger-haired and willing, and even those not ginger-haired but just as willing!”

 

“This isn't about the Iron Bull!”

 

“Then what exactly is this about, _Commander_?” Dorian sneered. “Because I'm having a hard time believing that my sterling reputation has risen that high on your list of priorities!”

 

For a moment, the Commander appeared speechless, face flushed down to his neck with an anger he barely kept in check. The wild-eyed stare he fixed on the mage was as dangerous as the hint of teeth he flashed as he glowered.

 

“I want _this_ to stop,” he said, carefully.

 

But everything about his expression went against the forced calm in his tone.

 

“Give me one reason why I should,” Dorian challenged, staring down the Inquisition Commander.

 

When Cullen was unable to respond, the mage quirked a brow. “Well, Commander, this has been ever enlightening but I am afraid I must retire for the evening. I have much to do before I depart with the Inquisitor to the Frostback Basin.”

 

He turned on his heels, feet ready to carry him out of the tower. He was more than done with Cullen, sick of dealing with whatever excuses the man hid behind to justify his behavior. Maybe it was shame that kept him from admitting how he really felt about Dorian fucking other men but Dorian already had more than enough of his own shame than he could chase with alcohol's wanton lure, he didn't need the burden of the Commander's.

 

He had hardly moved more than two steps before a firm grip was pulling him back. The protest was sitting on his tongue, vicious Tevene slurs itching to be spat, when he was tugged roughly against the Commander's chest. Eye's widening, he was met with the predatory glare of the Commander, the mage's mouth open but none of the words coming out. With an irate huff, Cullen pressed his lips to Dorian's, steadying grip preventing the mage from pulling away.

 

It took a second for Dorian to be fully aware of what was happening. His pride should have been enough to bite at the tongue that silenced him but any objection he had died when his own body betrayed him with a muffled groan.

 

“ _I_ don't want you fucking other men,” Cullen whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Dorian's lips. “There's your reason.”

 

Kaffas! This man was infuriating.

 

But his vexation with the mixed signals he had gotten from Cullen did not stop Dorian from hungrily reclaiming those lips.

 

_I've missed you._

 

His mouth was occupied, an excuse to not speak the only truth that mattered.

 

He was hard, groaning into the kiss, tangling his hands in those curled locks, rutting helplessly against Cullen's own arousal. Already, he was succumbing, weak fool that he was. Humiliation was never a good look for him and yet he wore it unabashedly, ready to sink to his knees, ready to please with his tongue, if only to give him a few more precious moments with the Commander.

 

“Maker, you don't know how much I hate that you do this to me,” Cullen growled against his lips. “How much I hate you for flaunting your conquests under my nose.”

 

And those fingers dug harder into his hips, painful and bruising. The blotches of blue and purple Dorian would wear would be his war wounds, a secret hidden beneath layers, marks of shame that would fade far sooner than the memory of Cullen's touch. He could taste contempt in the teeth that nipped his lower lip, the trickle of copper that stained his lips swiped away by a tongue once gentle, now vicious in its conquest.

 

“Fasta vass, just fuck me already,” he whimpered in surrender.

 

He was pushed roughly against the desk, missives flying off its surface, ink spilling and quills cluttering to the floor. The startled sound he made became a pained gasp, teeth sinking into his neck and piercing the mage's skin. A claim.

 

_Mine_ , the bite would state, a declaration to cleanse the taint left by the string of one night lovers Dorian had taken in the month since the last time he'd been in the Commander's tower. He could already picture Bull rolling his eyes, shaking his head and scoffing “humans” under his breath, laughing over how ridiculous he found their mating practices, should Dorian ever find himself crawling back to the qunari's bed.

 

“Promise that you'll stop giving yourself away to anyone but me,” Cullen said, voice harsh, possessive. His hands worked to disrobe the mage, eyes drawn down to focus on his task. The pale light glistened off his face, cheeks more pronounced than they had ever been before, sharp enough to pierce as his rejection had in what felt like a lifetime ago.

 

Dorian's response was swift, leg hooking behind the Commander to draw him closer. It went against all logic, the warning veiled beneath the want that pressed into his thigh. But he had stopped caring about doing the 'right' thing the first time Cullen had looked on him with such desire. “No.”

 

It felt _wrong._ The kisses that broke skin on his already swollen lips, the hands that grew impatient and tugged at expensive silk robes, tearing fabric, the fingers that probed roughly into him, stretching him without oil, harsh enough to rip him apart in a way that would have the mage feeling this for days. The pain was enough to blur his vision but Dorian was too proud to shed any tears, too desperate for the Commander's touch to protest when he was flipped over and shoved flat against the many papers still littering the desk's surface.

 

“Then tell me to stop,” Cullen challenged, his erection pressed against Dorian's entrance, the Tevinter's continued silence the only thing preventing the Commander from sinking inside. The demand sounded almost odd in a voice that broke with the unrelenting need to fill him.

 

Manipulative bastard! He knew how much Dorian wanted it, knew exactly how to get the mage to submit.

 

“If I promise, will you get on with it already?”

 

A nip on Dorian's shoulder, the brushing of a full cock against his ass, was the only response the mage received.

 

“Festis bei umo caravarum, I promise!”

 

Reaching back was awkward but Dorian managed to wrapped his hand around Cullen's shaft, hand tingling as he conjured an oily substance often used to enhance his pyromancy spell. He slid his hand over the Fereldan's cock, coating it generously, his reward the sound that spilled from the Commander's lips.

 

With a frustrated grunt, Cullen swatted Dorian's hand aside, and shoved himself into the mage. Dorian cried out, the ring of muscles still too tight but forced to stretch to make room for the Commander's intrusion. It burned with the piercing heat of a rogue's daggers, flesh tearing until Cullen was buried to the hilt, bent over the mage in a picture of perversion, a templar dominating his charge, exacting his authority in all its abuse. But Dorian knew abuse well, drank it in abundance whether his poison be the cheap local brew or the bottles of rich, red decadence traded from afar. He wanted Cullen to inflict hatred against his flesh with the same fervor that rippled from the inside, with the same shame that led to a life of hedonism and debauchery. That it only made Cullen hate him more for dangling temptation like a vial of the precious lyrium all templars were enslaved to, somehow entitled Dorian all the more to his self-made claim of disgrace.

 

When the Commander moved, his hips snapped against the mage's, each thrust burying as deep as the first. It hurt in a way that sex never had before but Dorian was still too stubborn to tell him to stop, his voice a cacophony of approving moans, legs spread as wide as the position would allow. He tried to lift his head, to glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Cullen pounding into him but found his head soon shoved back down, fingers pushing past his lips to muffle any sound he made. The free hand that reached around, tugged at his cock, felt like almost an afterthought but the trill it sent to the building ache in his abdomen was no less welcome.

 

“Maker, you're so perfect,” Cullen groaned.

 

That it was everything Dorian had never believed himself to be had him unable to blink away the drop that slipped off his lashes, soiling an already damaged report with whatever lies the Commander had to tell himself to make their intercourse more palatable. He knew his corruption on the ex-templar, saw it in the tiredness that never seemed to leave those once bright, golden eyes, felt it in the contempt that fucked him raw into the Commander's work desk. It was almost deplorable at how easy it was to fall back into their toxic obsession.

 

He whimpered around Cullen's fingers as he was stroked, tongue laving over the callused digits. It didn't take much until he was brought to completion, a few more quick strokes, thumb rubbing over the head of his cock. Dorian was soon cumming into the Commander's hand with little more than the whispered encouragement that fell on his undeserving ears, as warm as the Feleldan's hips were cruel in their continued assault on him.

 

When Cullen finally came, it was with a sob, the weeks of built tension released in a moment's pause, spilling into the mage in an explosion of liquid heat. A few more thrusts and the Commander was completely spent, collapsing with a shudder on top of Dorian. They lay like that for some time, neither willing to move even with the growing discomfort. With the weight of a man built like a soldier, still mostly clothed, pressing Dorian tightly against the desk, it became almost unbearable. But more than the promise of relief, he feared what he would see when he was forced to look at the man who had refused to meet his eyes as they had fucked. So Dorian remained quiet, apprehensive, unwilling to let his mind wonder at the unasked question that remained between them.

 

He almost groaned in relief when Cullen pulled away, straining to lift himself off the desk as muscles fought off the vicious tingling that had spread through most his limbs. The Commander wandered off to clean his hands while Dorian tried to salvage his clothes as best as he could. The laces on his trousers were fine, though the buckles were in definite need of repair. The ivory robe, unfortunately, had noticeable tears and would have to be given to one of the tailors. He had no qualms over being seen heading back to his quarters in ripped clothing. His recent behavior had sullied what little good he had made of his reputation in his years of service to the Inquisition and with the rumors flying around of him being yet another of the Iron Bull's conquests, he knew there was not much worse he could do.

 

_Except be accused of bewitching the Commander,_ he reminded himself, old fears filling his chest with a cold dread.

 

He had to make sure he left the tower unseen. He would not be the permanent smear on the Commander's reputation, the reason his own soldiers may whisper in dissent of their leader who dallied with the Tevinter pariah. Dorian's role in Corypheus' defeat earned him grudging respect as a fighter for the cause, but his character was something that had been regularly dragged through the mud since he first joined back in Haven.

 

When Cullen returned to stand near Dorian, the tension returned with him. He fumbled a bit awkwardly with the damp cloth in his hands, still avoiding the mage's inquisitive gaze.

 

“So, business as usual?”

 

He didn't want to go back to the way things were, to the odd limbo they had trapped themselves in, unable to go forward but unwilling to stop. But Dorian knew no other way.

 

“I...I suppose, yes,” Cullen answered, hesitantly.

 

It was everything he didn't want to hear.

 

His expression must have said as much but Dorian was tired of acting like they could go on as they have. Together, they were a mess. Apart, they somehow managed to be even fucking worse.

 

Cullen traced his thumb over Dorian's lower lip, the mage wincing even as the Commander pressed as gently as he could against the cut. When he looked into that sorrow-filled gaze, Dorian found himself drowning.

 

“I...”

 

Though he tried, Cullen couldn't seem to find the words he wanted to say.

 

Instead, he lowered his hand, eyes surveying the damage he had inflicted on Dorian's body, guilt coloring his cheeks. The bite that appeared stark on the Tevinter's neck stung when the Commander brushed the warm cloth over the marred skin.

 

Dorian's fingers curled around Cullen's wrist, pausing the Commander's attempt to wipe clean the sin he had committed against the mage's flesh. The next words that passed the blond's lips were almost too quiet for the mage to hear.

 

“I'm sorry, Dorian. For everything.”

 

The apology beckoned unwelcome tears, stubborn in their refusal to fall, painting the room in a blurred mirage of candlelit hues. The gentleness at which Cullen swiped away the evidence of Dorian's heartbreak, a stray tear trapped along a lower lash, felt foreign in light of the walls he had built between them.

 

How could someone he cared so much about make him so damn miserable?

 

_End it,_ Dorian told himself.

 

“Stay,” Cullen whispered.

 

Weak fool that he was, Dorian did.

 


	2. Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries but even he knows that to get what he wants, he'll have to make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept telling myself that I would try to find some way to make this verse lighter. But even if it does get a bit better, it seems it has to get worse first. Please be sure to read through the tags before continuing further with this fic. It explores an unhealthy relationship between Cullen and Dorian and some of the content may trigger readers who have had similar experiences.

It had been days since he had last had food, the pangs that burst in his stomach a dull throb that paled to the rasping dryness of his own throat. Unable to move, trapped in a cage fueled by magic more powerful than his limited training had prepared him for, Cullen was too exhausted to remain awake but too terrified to let his guard down. Nightmares had blurred to the living terrors he witnessed each time the demons toyed with him, so much so that he hardly could tell if he was awake any more. The coarseness of his skin, rubbed raw from the soiled armor he still wore, the stench of human sweat and waste enough to make him gag each time he breathed in, became his only testament to how real all of this was.

 

A sultry laugh, smooth and rich with a self-confidence the Fereldan had never known, echoed off stone walls as a figure approached. The templar wanted to sob, prostrate himself, would have begged for mercy he knew no demon capable of showing, but for a will that grew thinner with each passing moment of his imprisonment. Blessed Andraste, he would not give in, even if it kills him.

 

“How precious. Uldred has outdone himself,” the voice purred, Tevene accent making Cullen shudder. “I must commend the man for his taste in pets.”

 

If debauchery had a voice, it would be the one worn by this handsome stranger. Even Cullen couldn't deny the flare of conflicting arousal that seeped deep beneath his skin as he looked upon a pair of soulful gray eyes, a face as beautiful as its expression was cruel, finger tweaking the tip of a trimmed mustache.

 

“Y-you shall not break me, demon!” Cullen hissed, mentally chastising the quiver in his voice.

 

“It speaks!” the man said, ivory robes sweeping around him as he circled the cage, eyeing the templar in the same way a beast eyes its prey. The numerous, impractical buckles clinked each time the demon moved, ostentatious embellishments catching the bit of light reflecting off the magical cage. With a callous smirk, the man stopped, glancing over his shoulder at the templar. “...I wonder if it also screams.”

 

He had little warning before the full force of a spell struck Cullen, his skin exploding in pain as if he was being burned alive from the inside out. The scream that ripped from his lungs was of a man dying, his final moments being one of inexplicable horror and agony. Even as Cullen's eyes flew open, hands clawing at his bared chest as if he could pull off the layers of skin that blazed with phantom burns, the pain that ripped from his throat was as loud in his loft as it had been back in the Fade.

 

“Cullen!”

 

The hands that flew to his wrists, kept him from clawing and ripping into his own flesh, set off a new wave of uncontrollable panic. The Commander's eyes widened in fear as he saw who was gripping him, heard the same accent from the demon that had inflicted its wrath on him.

 

With an enraged cry, Cullen was shoving the other man off of him, the man swearing loudly in a foreign tongue as he fell backwards off the bed.

 

“Venhedis! What has gotten into—!”

 

But Cullen gave the demon no time to seduce him with its foul tongue. Already, he was leaping off the bed, pinning the man to the wooden floor, hands reaching for its throat. With a vice grip, he began to squeeze, intent on either rupturing the creature's windpipe or cracking its neck, whichever fate befell it first. Its mouth open in protest from words it could not form and air it could not draw in, it gurgled desperately, hands weakly tugging at the Commander's wrists, clinging to what little life remained.

 

The body struggled beneath him, gray eyes filled with a kind of betrayal that hit the Commander with a force as strong as any combat spell. Realization twisted his gut, had him pulling away and rolling off the mage, hands trembling.

 

“M-maker, Dorian, I-I'm so sorry!”

 

Dorian tried to speak but ended up coughing for breath his lungs had been briefly denied. Shakily, he began to sit up, disrupting his own wheezing by clearing his throat. Cullen could see how the mage tried to brush off the incident but it didn't stop him from flinching away when the Commander reached out to touch him.

 

The fear that flashed across Dorian's face filled Cullen with a cold dread, its icy caress numbing him, lungs clasped in the vice-grip of familiarity: he had seen that kind of fear before, inspired it in many of the mages back in Kirkwall's gallows.

 

That he could be the source of such terror to someone he cared so much about made Cullen aware of how little he had changed. The demons he once fought, the maleficarum he condemned to death by the end of his sword, paled in comparison to the evil that resided inside of him, the hate that had festered for years in its misguided message about magic.

 

Trembling, he folded in on himself, chasing back the panic that threatened to spill from his lips. Everything felt tight: the air that refused to enter his lungs, the pressure that settled on his chest...he squeezed his eyes shut to keep away the angry tears that burned behind his lids, gasped for breath that would not come. It was like being tortured all over again. However, the only demon circling his cage, cackling as he fell under, was one that wore the Commander's face.

 

“It's alright, _amatus,_ ” a voice said, soothing even as it rasped from the abuse wrought on the mage's airways. “Breathe in slowly, hold it, then exhale.”

 

A gentle hand tilted Cullen's face up and the blond reluctantly opened his eyes, ashamed at how easily the tears dribbled down his chin. But through the haze of his panic, he could see a softness in Dorian's gray eyes, forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve. He tried to speak, choked on a sound that wasn't quite a word, wheezed on air that still wouldn't come.

 

“You need to breathe in, Cullen,” Dorian said, voice still gentle. “Do as I do.”

 

After demonstrating, Dorian urged Cullen to inhale when he did, hold for a few moments, and then release. He repeated it a few more times, breathing slowly and in sync with the Commander until he was satisfied that Cullen could breathe on his own. The hysteria that had been building dulled to a prickling lull but it didn't silence the new wave of guilt that rippled low in his chest when Cullen's eyes caught the fresh bruises on the mage's neck.

 

“D-Dorian.”

 

The raw shame that ripped from his throat made him shake from more than just the draft in his loft. He wanted to pull away from the arms that wrapped around him, from the voice that whispered absolution, the lips that pressed a gentle kiss in his hair, hands that rubbed his back in soothing circles as Cullen fell apart in the Tevinter's arms. But for the first time in as long as he could remember, he let himself believe he was worth the vindication being offered, even if he knew, deep down, that he would never be worth the affection given so freely by the mage.

 

For as long as sleep could be held at bay, Cullen remained in Dorian's arms. Even once settled back into his bed, with reluctance for what awaited him should he return to the Fade, he refused to let the mage go, yearned for touch he had once spurned, no longer concerned for his humiliating display in weakness. When Dorian kissed him softly, brushing their lips with a tenderness Cullen had never known, he finally welcomed the call to slumber, contented sigh a mere whisper against Dorian's skin.

 

When dawn broke hours later, the first rays of sunlight peaking through the holes in the loft's ceiling, Cullen's eyes blinked open. The lazy smile on his lips became a distraught frown when his gaze fell to the empty space beside him.

 

* * *

Cullen didn't see Dorian for the rest of the day. Besides having numerous missives and reports to rewrite, those not salvageable set aside to burn later, the Commander found he had enough time to venture by the dining hall. While the Inquisitor greeted him, forcing him to sit with her and consume half of his bowl before she was satisfied (in truth, it had been hard swallowing each bite of stew, the most he had eaten in one sitting for as long as he could remember), Cullen had hoped to see a certain mage, growing more conflicted each time he replayed the events from the night before in his head. When Dorian still failed to arrive well into the afternoon, Cullen deflected further inquiries into his health, made his excuses, and left Lavellan sitting with Varric, both exchanging a discomfited glance as he retreated.

 

He knew how much his appearance had changed in the last few months. He knew how erratic his moods had become, how inconsistent his eating habits were. The sharpness of his cheeks made him ashamed to look in the mirror, going days longer between shaving, waiting until the thick stubble became barely tolerable before subjecting his pale skin to the blade. Hard muscle withered to solid bone, rough beneath the only hands he had let traverse his skin.

 

He walked through the rotunda, murals painted in brilliant hues of red, retelling the Inquisition's tale as it unfolded so that it wouldn't be lost to the ages. A melancholic sadness made him pause, spend a moment to appreciate what Solas had quite effortlessly created in the many hours he spent within Skyhold's stone walls. He traced his hand over the symbol of the Inquisition, the “watchful eye” peering into him, reminding him even he wasn't above the Maker's judgment.

 

He felt a prickle at the back of his neck, brushed his hand over the hairs shorn close, the habit instinctual. Cullen could tell he was being watched. But when he looked over his shoulder and up at the balcony lining the second floor of the library, he saw only Fiona and Minaeve, conversing in hushed tones.

 

He tried to think of any excuse to go up there. The apologies he owed, as feeble as they would sound, would be a place to start and remained a plague on his focus. But he already felt self conscious standing below, in a room abandoned for weeks by the apostate elf, and his nerves soon had him returning to his tower.

 

Sleep found him no easier than it had the night before. Whatever spell he had fallen under within Dorian's arms, he had to do without to battle the monsters crafted from memory and nightmare on his own in the Fade. It was with well-worn resolve that he reluctantly pulled his tired body from bed the next morning, dressed, surveyed the early drills of the troops, and settled into a routine worn thicker into his flesh than the lines of age time had succumbed him to.

 

“Message for you, Commander.”

 

Cullen acknowledged the salute, accepted the letter, and dismissed the scout. Swords clashed loudly across the courtyard, men and women falling into a familiar dance, effort ever present in the grunts and sheen of sweat.

 

His eyes scanned the letter. It was a reminder that the Inquisitor would be departing the next morning and required a party to escort her and her companions down to the Frostback Basin. Farrow was one of their best scouts but had already been awarded the opportunity to show his commitment in the basin. That it was as far away from the keep as Cullen could have the elf deployed on such short notice was really only coincidental, not an idea born of any jealousy.

 

Recalling how easily Dorian had found companionship so soon after Cullen had all but banished the mage from his tower...

 

“Are you alright, Cullen?”

 

The scowl on his face departed and it was with shock that he found the letter in his hand twisted and shredded. He cleared his throat, placating his anger with the distraction of Cassandra's concern, already feeling like a child with his hand caught in the sweets jar.

 

“I'm quite fine, I assure you,” he said, though he knew he looked anything but.

 

The once over she gave him ended with a disapproving clucking of her tongue. “You've lost more weight since I've been away with the Inquisitor. You haven't been eating enough, have you? Have you been getting a full night's rest?”

 

“I've been busy.”

 

When he offered nothing further in the way of excuses, the seeker arched a sleek brow. “I'm certain even the Empress makes time to take meals.”

 

“With all due respect, Cassandra, I'm no politician.”

 

“But you are an important symbol,” the seeker argued. “What good is a Commander who can hardly stand on his own two feet?”

 

He wanted to retort something snide, his weariness thinning what little patience he had these days. But she was cutting him off before he could reply.

 

“And what sort of friend would I be if I let you continue on like this?”

 

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. It was hard to keep the seeker's gaze, to know that the worry on her face was from his own negligence towards his health. “You're right. I have been a little careless when it comes to regular meals. I will take extra care to not let it affect my ability to serve.”

 

“Whether you are fit to serve is not the foremost of my concerns.”

 

Any irritation he felt faded with the implied concern. Most who didn't know her thought Cassandra was all hard edges, a woman who could be both blunt in her opinions but evasive in matters that affected the heart. However, the seeker had other ways of expressing what she felt, demonstrated subtlety instead of relying on outright declarations.

 

With a simple touch, hand clasping over the furred collar of his cloak, she said, “Let's go for breakfast. I hear the cooks are serving a popular Fereldan dish this morning.”

 

She left little room for argument but Cullen had no intention to deny her. His dinner from the night before remained cold and untouched, the last thing he had eaten the half bowl of stew from yesterday. He knew he could use a good meal.

 

Following Cassandra to the dining hall, they chatted a bit about the issues facing the Avvar and some of the reports received from the deployed troops. Lavellan was planning on remaining longer in the basin, Cassandra being the only one from the original party returning. Both Dorian and Varric would be brought along this time as the Inquisitor uncovered the mystery behind Ameridan's disappearance.

 

After grabbing some food, Cullen let Cassandra lead them towards the table often occupied by the Inner Circle. He noted that the seeker had only plucked a single apple from a bowl of fruit and suspected that she had come earlier to eat, being one to rise with the sun and not take breakfast so late in the day. It didn't diminish his desire to try and have a full meal, having filled his plate with mashed turnip, pickled eggs, a slab of roast, and a warmed bun, taking a small bowl of lamb and pea stew in his other hand.

 

Sitting himself on the bench beside Cassandra, Cullen nearly dropped his bowl when he caught sight of the mage seated across from him. The constant dizzying effects of neglected sleep was making him less aware of his immediate surroundings than usual, having not realized the table had a single occupant before their arrival. And if Cullen looked weary, Dorian could be accused of the same, the kohl he applied only adding to the circles under his eyes.

 

“I've never seen you take a meal before dinner,” Cassandra mused, as way of greeting.

 

“Our dear Lavellan, sadist that she is, felt that I needed to acclimate myself to a traveling schedule again,” Dorian grumbled, toying with his barely touched stew. The face he made said more than the disdain dripping in his voice, “Evidently, Skyhold's cooks feel the same. I believe we've made more appetizing meals in the damned wastes than this shit Fereldan's call 'food'.”

 

“It's not all that bad,” Cullen mumbled, looking down at his food. His cheeks heated as he took a careful sip, the thick stew filling him with a warmth that always made him think of Honnleath, of cool nights and warm fires, his mother's cooking chasing the cold that settled bone-deep in the harsh Fereldan winters. It tasted of _home_ , or of the only place that had ever felt like home, in a time before the Blight and his parents' passing.

 

It would be so easy to find offense in the mage's flippant disregard. But the bruising that his collar failed to hide, the nearly imperceptible tremble in the Tevinter's fingers whenever he wasn't playing with his spoon, made Cullen think of their last night together. It was enough to silence any chastisement before it could start.

 

“If you had interest in adjusting your sleeping schedule, you would have risen at dawn,” Cassandra said. She bit into her apple, chewing slowly while Dorian glowered at her.

 

“Not all of us are masochists. Some of us enjoy sleep,” he replied. “I will spare both of you the virtues of a good night's rest, as I am well aware I'm within the presence of those who spurn life's little pleasures.”

 

“You may enjoy life's pleasures at your leisure,” Cassandra said. “But by the bride of the Maker, if I am to drag you out of your tent even once for sleeping in, I will leave you to fend off all the bears on your own.”

 

“Kaffas, are you still upset about the wastes? It was HOT!”

 

“Trousers should _never_ be optional when you're sharing a tent!”

 

“Varric said he had no issue with it!”

 

“That dwarf says a lot of things and hardly any good ever comes of it!”

 

_Maker, take me now,_ Cullen thought, finding more interest in the food on his plate.

 

When Cassandra grew frustrated with the banter, she arose from the bench, apple core in hand. “I'll be in the training yard if you'd like to spar, Cullen. In the meantime, I believe Ser Pavus will provide sufficient company. There is a charm to his incessant prattling, if one is in the mood.”

 

Dorian chuckled as the seeker left, eyes shining with bemusement that Cullen had not seen in a long time. “I'd like to think I've grown on her. She's scowling a lot less these days.”

 

“Seeker Pentaghast does have a way about her,” the Commander replied. “But I wouldn't mistake the infrequency of her scowls for growing affection: I assure you, she finds you as infuriating as ever.”

 

“To be honest, I would be more offended if she didn't. My charms have worked wonders but even I must admit defeat when it comes to that woman.”

 

“Then perhaps you should focus your attentions on those who have a healthy appreciation for your charm.”

 

Startled at how openly he flirted with the mage, Cullen was disappointed to see Dorian draw into himself a little, casual grin wavering into a more neutral smile. It was the opposite effect he wanted to have, craving something more than this dance they had assumed in the months of secretive affection. What had began as something intoxicating devolved into something toxic, neither willing to accept how their relationship had changed. And the Commander knew that the only way to correct this was to set them on the right path.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen started, reaching across the table to place his hand over the mage's.

 

Dorian stood up so abruptly, he knocked over his bowl of stew. It splattered across the table, bowl clattering loudly enough to draw the attention of nearby troops. Cullen could see the color that rose in Dorian's cheeks, the panic that flashed in his eyes at drawing such unwanted attention.

 

“What in the name of the Maker do you think you're doing?” he hissed, quietly enough so only Cullen would hear.

 

“I...well, I had been hoping—”

 

“Don't ever presume you may touch me like _that_ again,” Dorian said, a coldness to his tone that Cullen had never heard before. What was more shocking was that Dorian spoke to him no differently than Cullen had the month before. “Not when we're around them.”

 

A tilt of the mage's head towards the other tables told Cullen all he needed.

 

_Not in public._

 

“...I want to see you tonight. Before you leave,” Cullen said, keeping his voice quiet enough to not draw attention.

 

His pulse quickened, racing in trepidation at the possibility of rejection. It was as he always feared: the closer he let Dorian in, the more of himself he revealed to the mage, the farther it would push him away.

 

That Dorian didn't belay his fears made the blond sink further into his own misery.

 

“I apologize, Commander, but I must prepare for tomorrow's departure. I'm afraid I am rather busy the rest of the day.”

 

Cullen tried not to let it affect him but the sting was there, making the food on his plate no longer palatable. Even the scent of the stew curdled his stomach, the spoonful he swallowed tasting as foul as spoiled meat. He remained contemplative, seeking a solution to the tension that percolated between them. But all he had was his self-pity and a question he knew better than to ask.

 

“Are you avoiding me, Dorian? Because of the other night?”

 

For a good minute, the mage only stared down at the dirty table, face a mask that Cullen struggled to read. When a servant came over to wipe at the spillage, it was all the excuse Dorian needed for his retreat.

 

“I have a matter that needs attending to. Excuse me, Commander.”

 

His failure to say anything on the question Cullen had asked somehow made the Commander feel worse. For a long time, he could only stare down at his stew, stir with idle interest, and wonder how he had yet again managed to ruin the one thing in his life that used to feel good.

 

* * *

Cullen stepped to the side, avoiding the sweeping of Cassandra's sword as it sliced the air low, shield up and ready to deflect any blow the seeker would deliver. Spinning in a half-circle, she repositioned her own shield and charged, smashing it against Cullen's. The added momentum was enough to have him staggering back a few steps, balance sloppier than it had been in a while. Instead of using his struggle to remain standing against him, Cassandra used the moment to critique the Fereldan.

 

“Your footwork has gotten sloppy,” she pointed out. To prove her point, she knocked her sword against his greave, the clang of metal ringing in their corner of the courtyard. Cullen wobbled once again, gritting his teeth as he barely managed to keep from toppling over. “And your reaction time is a lot slower than it used to be.”

 

_Dorian's icy tone. His refusal to see the Commander. His quick stride out of the mess hall, as if he couldn't get out of there fast enough—_

 

The flat side of Cassandra's blade slapped against Cullen's hand, knocking the sword out of his hand. It clattered to the ground, the Commander's eyes widening, reality hitting him harder than Cassandra's displeased expression.

 

“When was the last time you sparred, Cullen?”

 

“I—Maker, I have no clue,” he said, bending down to retrieve his blade. Sweat shone on his face, his head pounded angrily, a combination of heat and frustration setting off a cantankerous thrum, and he was fairly certain Dorian was giving him a taste of prolonged silent treatment until the ex-templar got the message and left the mage alone.

 

_Not that I deserve any less,_ he thought, bitterly.

 

Even now, he remembered the feel of Dorian's throat in his hands, the vessels crushing beneath his soldier's grip, splashing shades of vicious blues on that soft neck, and it made Cullen want to keel over and vomit what little breakfast still remained in his stomach.

 

“Let's start again. A basic stance.”

 

Cullen nodded, resuming a pose he had often used back in his days of training. The footwork and positioning of his blade and shield were second nature to him. The only problem was his head, so far removed from what they were doing that it made it even easier than usual for Cassandra to best him.

 

Afternoon sun bearing down on them, Cullen vowed to keep the Tevinter far from his mind, stepping into an easy rhythm, sword clashing against sword, shield meeting the seeker's when she thrust it forward. She wore him down quite fast but he was starting to get back into it, pushing his body to limits it no longer was accustomed to, while Cassandra hardly broke a sweat.

 

It was all going well until a loud conversation by some passing recruits broke the Commander's focus.

 

“—at the tower by the northern rampart.”

 

“You're really telling me that Tevinter mage sucked you off up there?”

 

Cullen smashed his shield into Cassandra's, taking her by surprise. She stepped out of position but righted herself quickly. The sound alone should have been enough to drown the conversation but the Fereldan's ears burned hotter than the jealous rage that began to surface.

 

“He did things with his tongue that would make a whore blush,” the recruit said, his laughter making Cullen grip his sword tighter. “They say he's some magister's son but, Andraste's tits, you'd think he was raised in a brothel. I've never paid for anything near as good as he gives for free!”

 

It happened so quickly, Cassandra was unable to stop him. Throwing his sword to the ground, Cullen stalked over to the recruit, slicing his shield through the air and smashing it against the younger man's face. The recruit screamed in agony, falling to the ground and clutching at his bloodied face. Not even a meter away, his friend was yelling out in shock, terror on his face. But Cullen was seeing red, murderous ire dripping in his voice, as he glared down at the recruit shaking and whimpering at his feet.

 

“Don't _ever_ speak ill of Lord Pavus again!”

 

Hands gripping his shield, the Commander had to fight every urge that wanted to smash it down on the young man's skull, splatter gore and brains across the dirt, for the offense that tongue had laid against a man he desired with possessive need. He towered over the recruit, body shaking with unhinged rage, waiting for the man to give him any reason to lash out, to repay foul words with bodily harm.

 

“Commander! That's enough!”

 

A hand was pulling him back and he flipped around, ready to lash out at whoever dared intervene. But the familiar eyes that stared angrily into his, lips that curled back into a thin line of disapproval, had Cullen deflating before the Seeker's judgment, shield dropping from his hands.

 

“Take this man to a healer!” Cassandra barked at the recruit's friend.

 

He didn't need to be told twice, scrawny legs bending to help his friend to his feet. By the time they were gone, a change had settled over Cullen. A violent quivering began in his shoulders, spreading down to the hands that had been ready to take life, and the Commander fell into a near trance as all he could do was stare down in shock for what he had nearly done.

 

“What was that all about?”

 

The demand fell to deaf ears.

 

“Cullen!”

 

The sound of his name snapped him out of it.

 

“I—I don't know what came over me...”

 

“I believe discipline is sometimes necessary when dealing with ill-mannered recruits. However, I must insist that you avoid using such force in the future,” Cassandra said. She eyed Cullen warily. “What I don't understand is how their discussion could inspire such anger. Dorian is hardly favored by those among Skyhold and many of our recruits arrive with their prejudices and preconceived assumptions about Tevinter.”

 

She was prying, reaching for anything Cullen would provide in way of an answer. He wiped at the sweat on his forward, dropping his eyes to the shield at his feet. Spatters of blood flecked over its shiny surface, making him feel suddenly nauseous.

 

“I haven't any answer that would satisfy you, Seeker,” he said, hoping the subject would be dropped.

 

But his avoidance of inquiries into his odd behavior had a history spanning many months and it had been quite obvious to him for a while now that Cassandra knew he was doing this intentionally. It really was a matter of how much longer her patience would last.

 

“Is it the lyrium withdrawals, Cullen?” she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You haven't been sleeping or eating properly as of late.”

 

“I...suppose it may be that...” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.

 

“Maker, you were like a mage possessed,” Cassandra said, mostly muttering to herself. “I've never seen you like that.”

 

“The recruit should know better than to speak so flippantly of his... _relations._ ”

 

“What do you care if he's had relations with Dorian?”

 

When Cullen paled at the remark, he could see everything clicking together on the Seeker's face. She stared at him, long and hard, more certain in her own assumptions as the Commander relented beneath her gaze.

 

“You and I will need to have a discussion on this matter. At another time,” she finally said. Cullen nearly sighed in relief. Anything she assumed, which he believed would be the truth, if not close to it, could later be denied once he had enough time to fabricate some other lie. “For now, I suggest returning to your tower, perhaps taking the afternoon to rest. Your reports will still be there tonight, I assure you.”

 

“I may do just that.”

 

They exchanged goodbyes, Cullen forcing the bile to remain in his throat as he retrieved his shield and sword. Having been almost caught didn't nearly make him as queasy as his lack of control over his own violence. He heard of templars slipping into madness before reaching their twilight years, minds shriveling before the call of lyrium's song. But it sometimes felt as if the lyrium he denied his body made him slip into insanity prematurely, a gradual plummet that grew deadlier over time.

 

One glance back and he noted Cassandra's brisk pace towards the keep. Wherever she was off to, it was certainly in a hurry.

 

* * *

The temptation to crawl into bed, chase the events of the day with the nightmares that awaited him, had been strong when he returned to the tower. In fact, any nightmare his twisted mind could conceive would be no worse than reliving Dorian's rejection in his head or the image of his shield smashing into the recruit's face. But sleep would be fleeting and didn't offer the same distraction as the monotony of reading status reports he'd received earlier in the day. So against Cassandra's wishes, he found himself sitting at his desk and going through the reports well into the evening.

 

It should have been obvious that with the day not yet complete, there was still the potential for it to get worse. Maybe he should have anticipated the storm that breezed in, slamming open the main door and shutting it with the same veracity. Undoubtedly, the scouts patrolling that section of the ramparts were most likely witnesses to the destruction Dorian Pavus could wreak before spell could be cast, needing only the rage twisting his handsome face to reaffirm their strongly held prejudices and step aside to let him pass . His upbringing in the game of intrigue, of wearing metaphorical masks to pass seamlessly by the critical eyes of Tevinter's nobility, hide his innermost thoughts from curious gazes, was no longer relevant to this odd game of back and forth the Commander was playing with the mage.

 

Quite simply, Dorian Pavus was _pissed._

 

“If this is your way of gaining my much desired attention, you've certainly outdone yourself this time, Commander!”

 

Splotches of ink soaked through the section he had been writing, making the missive no longer legible. Looking up at the livid mage standing on the other side of his desk made Cullen feel torn between his confusion and defensiveness over his contribution to Dorian's ire. “You'll have to speak frankly on that of which I am accused.”

 

“I have half a mind to set this bloody tower on fire after that little display of yours in the courtyard!”

 

The air crackled with energy drawn from the Fade, triggering that same sick queasiness the Commander always experienced when in the presence of magic. Cullen's response was instinctual and immediate. He abruptly stood from his desk, hand already reaching for the sword never outside of arm's length, resting threateningly on the pummel. The stores of untapped potential hummed within his veins, lyrium his answer and his temptation, wanting to smite the presence of magic before it could be abused.

 

Cullen had to swallow the violence that begged to be unleashed, forced restraint making his teeth grit. “I'd think carefully on where you direct your threats, mage.”

 

“Oh, I know quite well where and to whom my threats are being directed. If your response to my needing space is to maul men I've had relations with and send your pet Seeker after me, I'm well within my rights to be a little angry!”

 

The mention of his friend gentled the urge to respond with physical aggression, Cullen needing to remind himself that this was Dorian, not some apostate spilling blood and waiting to unleash the full fury of their abilities. This was Dorian who had shared his bed, who had held him through the memory of nightmares, even after he'd lashed out in blind fear.

 

Cullen paused to take a deep breath, trying to calm the vicious thudding in his chest.“What does Cassandra have to do with any of this?”

 

“She all but dragged me out of the library and promised me veilfire and death if I so much as _toy_ with you again,” Dorian spat. “I had to endure a lecture on _my_ reckless behavior for taking advantage of you when you are, according to our dearest Seeker, 'unwell'.”

 

The color drained from his face at the thought of Cassandra revealing to Dorian the Commander's struggle with lyrium. It was a part of his life he knew he should have confided in the mage about months ago but as he was still in the midst of breaking the addiction's hold, he wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

 

“It was humiliating,” Dorian continued. Cullen almost sighed in relief, certain that his shameful secret remained just that. “She treated me as if I was some lecherous deviant prowling on virginal men for my own sick amusement, all because you couldn't keep that fool mouth of yours shut!”

 

“I never said anything to her, you have my word.”

 

“What need is there to even speak when all you have to do is bludgeon recruits!”

 

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing to stave off the pounding in his head. “I see you heard about that unfortunate incident.”

 

“Now, Commander, there's no need to be so blasé. I'd hardly call pummeling a recruit an 'unfortunate incident'.”

 

“Don't you think I'm aware of that!” Cullen snapped, his fist coming down hard on his desk. It caused the table to shake, sending a few reports to the floor. “Maker knows I'm trying but sometimes I lose focus! I can't be what everyone expects! Not when...”

 

He shuddered, closing his eyes to fight off the panic building in his chest. His lungs felt like they were constricting, folding in on themselves, air too thick to pass through his lips.

 

_Not now._

 

Head hung low, hands resting on the surface of his desk to help him keep his balance, Cullen breathed in slowly. _Inhale. Hold. Release._

 

When he opened his eyes, he saw Dorian gazing intently at him, fury still present but with a look that became ever more concerned.

 

“This is all because of the lyrium withdrawals, isn't it?”

 

Cullen felt as if he was going to be sick.

 

Bleary-eyed, he nodded.

 

Dorian swore under his breath, fists staying clenched at his sides.

 

“I don't know why I hadn't seen it sooner,” Dorian said, releasing a bitter laugh. Even his laughter cracked with pain. “It all makes sense: the erratic behavior, the night terrors...Commander Rutherford, suffering alone and in silence like some damned Chantry martyr!”

 

“That's not fair!” Cullen hissed, though guilt kept him from breaking into the same rage that wanted to lash out over the exposure of his shame. “This is something I need to do on my own. It has nothing to do with you.”

 

“And that's the problem! Vishante kaffas, you never even gave me a chance!” Dorian cried, “You never once let me in. Even after everything, you don't trust me enough to warn me about your fucking sleep issues after inviting me into your bed!”

 

The marks on Dorian's neck, in the shape of Cullen's thicker, larger fingers, looked starker than they had in the light of day, illuminated only by the playing of candlelight on the mage's skin. It was the violence against his lover's flesh, as unintended as it was, that broke the last of the Commander's defenses.

 

“You're right. I should have given you a chance,” Cullen said, quietly. “I am sorry, Dorian. Truly.”

 

In a moment of indecision, the mage fell silent. He looked conflicted, lost, staring at the table between them. But if he was looking for some way to traverse the growing distance between them, his heavy sigh was his admission to failure. It settled like a weight on Cullen's chest, making him feel emptier than he had in the time since Corypheus' defeat.

 

“I've lost count of the number of times you've apologized,” Dorian said. His watery frown shattered what little hope Cullen had that anything between them was salvageable. “And yet, it never gets better.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

With a thick swallow, the mage looked away. “I'm saying that I don't think 'sorry' will be enough this time, _amatus_.”

 

The implication had Cullen rounding the desk.

 

“Dorian, don't—”

 

“I should finish my preparations for tomorrow,” Dorian said, voice wavering.

 

But the last thing Cullen wanted was for it to end.

 

“I love you.”

 

Dorian stared at him, wide-eyed disbelief in his gray eyes. “Don't presume you can say such things if you don't—”

 

“Maker's breath, I love you so much.”

 

And Cullen was pulling the mage into his embrace, kissing him, saying in action everything he had denied himself for so long. He felt the hesitation, the same that had always held Dorian back, words that nestled into a comfortable groove on the mage's tongue, too afraid to be voiced even as he delivered heated kisses with the same urgency as Cullen. Both of them had been afraid for so long and they were afraid still, the tension only leaving Dorian's posture when the ex-templar pulled his lips away, sighing sadly as he pressed his forehead to the mage's. It was almost too difficult to sift through the flurry of emotions Dorian always roused within him, the worst of which was the frigid knowledge that this may be the last time he would hold the Tevinter in his arms.

 

“Don't leave,” Cullen whispered.

 

_Please._

 

“I...”

 

Dorian swallowed, pulling out of Cullen's embrace.

 

He could only stare helplessly in the space between them.

 

“I need time,” Dorian finally said.

 

That he didn't offer any affirmation of his affections, or anything more concrete than an ambiguous statement, made Cullen want to curl into himself in humiliation. Before he could stop himself, he already had a biting remark spilling off his tongue.

 

“You'll have more than enough of that in the Basin.”

 

“Amatus—”

 

“Don't you dare call me _that_!” Cullen snapped.

 

He turned away from Dorian, stalking towards the opposite end of his office. Hands in fists at his sides, he clenched his teeth to hold back the anger and hurt that surged beneath his skin, the vicious words he would regret, should they be unleashed.

 

“I will see you when I return,” Dorian said, quietly.

 

When Cullen only offered a small grunt of acknowledgment, he heard the mage's sad exhale, the foot steps that carried him out of the tower. For a long while, the Commander remained silent in his corner of the office, livid with a new kind of rejection that burned like a tranquil's brand in his skin.

 

Finding no solace in the cold, stone walls, he smashed his fist against the side of his bookshelf, enraged cry answered with the books that clattered onto the floor.

 

* * *

Cullen barely pulled his bone-weary body out of bed in time to watch the Inquisitor and her companions depart for the Frostback Basin the next morning. Exhaustion like a second skin, he wore it with the same proclivity he clad himself in armor and mantle, a dying symbol of an order that had once inspired faith among the fear tucked into all the dark corners of Thedas. From his position behind Josephine and Leliana, he had simply nodded to the Inquisitor as she mounted her horse, exchanged a glance with Cassandra, and ignored the sad look on Dorian's face. He had no interest in meeting the mage's eyes, in seeing the pity that would undoubtedly greet him.

 

Not long after they left, Leliana met with him privately to discuss the incident from the day before. The recruit was already being sent to serve at an outpost in the Emerald Graves while the spymaster ran damage control, stifling the rumors that grew more outlandish with each retelling of the Commander's indiscretion. But in the days that followed, Cullen knew that her handiwork had not been enough: each time he surveyed soldiers training, he could see the nervous glances exchanged, the tension that stiffened the recruits' movements whenever he drew too close or tried to offer advice in improving their form. It became near unbearable that he dreaded his daily rounds and welcomed the long periods he was bound to his desk, no longer having to pretend he didn't hear the whispers that traveled across the courtyard.

 

His nightmares hardly went away, the shaking and sweating became worse. His appetite always left something to be desired, bouts of dizziness causing him to collapse in his office a few times. A scout found him in such a state once and he awoke later in a cot that had been brought in, Josephine and a healer staying vigilant at his side.

 

“You mustn't go on like this, Commander,” Josephine said, concern etched between her brows. “You need to eat and sleep regularly.”

 

Promises easily broken when Cullen was shuddering awake from a nightmare later that evening, then pulling an all-nighter to avoid the terrors his sleep always brought.

 

And now, weeks after the Inquisitor had left, his body grown so worn and thin from the madness sown between the cracks of his sanity, he found himself staring at it. The wooden kit lay open in front of him, Andraste's figure offering none of the comfort it once held in the walls of the Chantry. The red velvet lining nestled its contents, vial of lyrium staring back at him, tempting him the way a lover would, it's caress one he would feel down his throat.

 

He had wanted to return to lyrium when the withdrawals had first become unbearable, but abstained on the Inquisitor's advice. At first, work had offered sufficient distraction until the monotony had festered into something masochistic, the more time he spent near his kit, the stronger the lyrium's song became.

 

Then Dorian had unknowingly offered a solution and it had worked...for a while. Until both of them had fallen into something he couldn't have anticipated. And the more honest he was with the mage, the more he let Dorian see what his addiction and trauma had done to him, the more Dorian had pushed him away.

 

He couldn't have Dorian, not as the man his withdrawals made him out to be. He couldn't continue to lead the Inquisition's military, not if he couldn't rely on himself to not collapse at the first signs of exhaustion.

 

There was something inside of him that was very broken and there had only ever been one solution.

 

Lifting the vial with trembling fingers, Cullen uncorked it, tilted the glass to his lips, and swallowed the glowing, blue liquid.

 


	3. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more Dorian reflected on what he'd given up, the more he wished he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a big thanks to every one who has followed this verse and supported it by commenting! All of you are wonderful and I can't thank you enough for giving this story a chance. It has kept me motivated even though I sometimes feel like I have too much going on to keep up with writing. It's more about making time to edit since I am doing this without a beta reader so if there are any glaring grammatical errors, they are my own fault. As always, please read ALL of the tags before continuing since there are things in this story that may trigger some readers.

_I love you._

 

_Maker's breath, I love you._

 

He had never heard those words before, at least, not directed to him outside of familial cordiality. And even then, his parents said it sparingly, as if believing any frequency and sincerity to the words would soften Dorian.

 

He had wanted to remain strong in his conviction that Cullen was too unstable, while Dorian too damaged, to maintain any physical relationship without spiraling into the poisonous mess they always found themselves in. It was a cycle that had run its course enough times for the mage to know it was time to give up, save what little dignity he had left, and avoid the lure of the wine bottle until the grief of separation had run its course.

 

But then Cullen had to say the one thing that could make Dorian stay. And even when Dorian tried to give himself an out, leave things on ambiguous terms to ease the rejection that would follow, he had already made up his mind by the time Cullen had pulled him into his arms.

 

_Kaffas, I'm an idiot._

 

Time spent in the Basin hadn't weakened the pull the Fereldan had on Dorian, only strengthened the growing urgency to return, to apologize, to hope that it wasn't too late. Five weeks later and the mage found he was still returning to his tent wearily each evening, the whisper of his lover's confession lulling him into dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

When he wasn't chasing after the Inquisitor, following her on whatever task fit her fancy to assist the locals, Dorian's spare time was spent pouring over the few books he had brought with him from Skyhold. All of them dealt with the properties of lyrium and its application outside of use by mages. While he was well-versed in the effect it had on mages and its usage in potions, he had only a basic understanding of how it was used by the templars in the south.

 

In the weeks since leaving, he also made sure to avoid Cassandra. It was hard to not cower beneath her withering stares in the time it took to arrive to the basin but once sleeping arrangements had been decided (Dorian would have much preferred sharing a tent with Lavellan instead of their snoring dwarf companion but he hadn't wanted to incur even more of the Seeker's wrath by suggesting she bunk with Varric), all of them fell into a daily routine of exploring and ridding the Avvar of their rivals in the region. The effort to stay alive made it easy to ignore the prevailing tension between him and the Seeker, nor did Cassandra ever converse with Dorian beyond a few barked orders in combat or grunted greetings in the morning.

 

It had all been going well until one morning found them in a camp northwest of the research outpost, maybe a day's march upriver. With Hakkon Wintersbreath defeated, Dorian had hoped their return to Skyhold would be imminent but reports of issues upstream had sent the party to one of the Inquisition supply posts.

 

Unlike Cassandra and Ellana, Dorian was shocked to be greeted by Lieutenant Farrow, who he hadn't seen since the elf's deployment months before.

 

“Inquisitor, Seeker,” Farrow said, expression grim. Surprise had him lifting his thin brows, blush coloring his cheeks. “Ser Pavus.”

 

“And the dwarf,” Varric said, shuffling out from behind the Inquisitor. “Name's Varric Tethras: famed storyteller, best marksman in all of Thedas. Some call me the silver-tongued S _layer of Dragons_.” Cassandra muttered something along the lines of, 'No one's ever called you that,' under her breath but it did little to interrupt the dwarf's self-introduction. “I wrote a little series called, _Hard in Hightown._ Perhaps you've heard of it?”

 

“Ugh, must you?” Cassandra muttered, earning a smirk from the dwarf. “Why not add 'pain in my backside' to your list of insufferable titles?”

 

“Admit it, Seeker. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you weren't chasing my handsome mug around Thedas, trying to keep me in line.”

 

“I'm starting to believe the only way to keep you in line is to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.”

 

“Will you two knock it off?” the Inquisitor said, silencing the ongoing banter.

 

“Lieutenant Farrow, you seem to be in top form,” Dorian said, eyeing the elf appreciatively. Maker help him, with only standoffish Avvar and his present party for company these past weeks, the Tevinter was starved for a little attention. And what better than to receive that attention from an attractive man he had already had the pleasure of being _intimately_ acquainted with. “I see your time away from Skyhold has been treating you _quite_ well.”

 

“DORIAN!”

 

He rolled his eyes as Lavellan glowered at him. “Always ruining my fun.”

 

“We're here to follow up on a report we received, not seduce every pretty face we meet outside of Skyhold.”

 

“...so, you also think he's pretty?”

 

The Inquisitor's face went even redder than the lieutenant's as she shook her head in frustration. This was followed by a string of words in the Dalish tongue, which Dorian could only assume were insults.

 

“Nice one, Sparkler,” Varric said, chuckling.

 

“By the Maker, I am surrounded by idiots,” Cassandra mumbled, stalking off to the edge of the camp. She remained close enough to offer protection, should it be needed, but kept enough distance to tune out anything said by the dwarf.

 

“Now, if there are no further interruptions,” the Inquisitor paused to give her remaining companions a meaningful glare, “Report, Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, right,” the elf said, clearing his throat. “Between the Hakkonites and the wildlife, this hasn't been the easiest place to maintain a presence...”

 

Lieutenant Farrow went into detail about the attacks on inquisition supplies, the places upstream held by the few pockets of Hakkonites still within the region, and the disruption to service along the river. Dorian only half listened, enjoying the smoothness of the elf's deep voice but caring little for what was being said. Lavellan would let him know the objectives later. He'd much rather enjoy the view and recall all the ways he had made that voice crack beneath the many talents of his tongue.

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent tracking the nearest of the Hakkonite camps, killing the fanatics, and raiding it for any supplies they could bring back to the inquisition post. By the time they returned, it was already well into the evening and the party was exhausted. Farrow and his soldiers provided a meal and extra tents for them, the first night in nearly as long as Dorian could remember where he wouldn't need to share with Varric, and all of them welcomed the security the fortified camp had to offer. It meant all of them could rest through the night and nobody would have to take watch that evening.

 

Preparing to retire, Dorian took his leave and headed for the tent he had been assigned. His shoulders were sore from carrying materials they had found in the Hakkonite camp and his leg still stung from a spell that had singed the end of his robe. The poultice he applied had already healed most of the burn but he would need to reapply it before letting his head hit his pillow. He knew the moment he lay down, he would be out for at least the next eight hours.

 

A hand on his wrist stopped him from entering his tent. Dorian looked over in surprise, the lieutenant appearing a bit nervous as he let the mage go. He shifted his weight between his feet and were it not for the lack of light, Dorian was certain he would have noted the color filling the elf's pale cheeks.

 

“My apologies, Ser Pavus,” the Lieutenant started, “but I had hoped to speak with you before you retired.”

 

“By all means, you have my full attention,” Dorian said, flirtatious lilt in his tone. “I am often told I am unable to say 'no' to a handsome face.”

 

He took far too much delight in how easily he could make the Lieutenant squirm. Farrow had been bashful the last time they were together but without the euphoric numbing of alcohol to ease his inhibitions, the elf was ever a soldier, stiff in the most awkward sense. A pang of familiarity drummed thick in Dorian's chest.

 

“I was...thinking. Given our, uh, recent acquaintance, that perhaps you'd prefer more...companionable sleeping arrangements.”

 

The forwardness of the request brought a small smile to Dorian's lips. His month of promiscuity after Corypheus' defeat had taught him how direct men in the south were when it came to their desires, where even the veiled dialect of the Game was dropped for more passionate rhetoric if one caught the attentions of an Orlesian. It made him feel desirable in a way he had never felt in Tevinter, even if he knew that desire was only temporarily filling a void that ached in his chest.

 

“Why, Lieutenant, how would I ever be able to deny such a request?” Dorian purred, pulling the elf in the tent with him.

 

It was the heat he had been missing, the taste of another man's lips, the trill of pleasure that pooled below his waist, sent his skin tingling with the anticipation of feeling another's hands slide over the expanse of his flesh. In the darkness, they stumbled towards his cot, Dorian pulling the elf down on top of him. A low groan rumbled in his throat, the press of kisses on his jaw making his trousers tighten to a point of severe discomfort. He thrust his hips upward, sighed when they brushed the elf's arousal, but his own mind betrayed him when it was another man's voice he heard, drowning out Farrow's soft groans.

 

_I love you._

 

Golden eyes that burned with intensity, his arms wrapping securely around the mage, a shelter from all the pain they had caused each other.

 

Dorian tried to push the thought of Cullen away, knew that anything he did could hardly be considered infidelity when they hadn't anything that resembled fidelity. But it didn't stop the guilt from burning like magebane in his chest, turning fiery kisses into winter's chill.

 

_Maker's breath, I love you._

 

Unable to silence those words, Dorian put an end to the lips that suckled gently on his neck, darkening the skin around a faded bite, with a gentle grip on the elf's shoulder.

 

_Mine._

 

“How embarrassing. It seems I'm more tired than I had expected,” he said, feigning a yawn.

 

Farrow sat up immediately, staring down at Dorian. The mage could just make out the confusion on the elf's face in the darkness of the tent. Disappointment sat heavily in the lieutenant's posture but, as dutiful as he was in his service to the Inquisition, he accepted the rejection with the same humility he often carried himself with.

 

“How inconsiderate of me. I must apologize for imposing on you, given the day's events,” the elf said, standing up off the cot.

 

“No, no. There's no need. As I once said, I am lacking in stamina these days. Not as I once had in my youth,” Dorian joked.

 

It at least earned a small, albeit, sad smile from the other man.

 

“I wish you a goodnight, Ser Pavus.”

 

With their pleasantries exchanged, the lieutenant left Dorian alone in his tent. For a long while, Dorian remained curled on his side, the sting of the burn on his leg becoming white noise to the dissonance of regret that filled him with an ugly kind of shame. His fingers touched gingerly at his neck, the marks once stark on his skin faded with time and separation. But still, the Commander's claim was a brand buried skin deep, Dorian's heart beating for only one man.

 

* * *

It took only a handful of days for the party to locate the rest of the Hakkonites and be rid of them for good. By the fourth night, the Inquisitor and her companions were applying poultices and recuperating in the nearest tree fort, exhaustion beckoning them to bed early and finding them all resting well into the next morning. It was near noon by the time Dorian arose, stretching his sore muscles and wondering absently if his days of trekking across Thedas were coming to an end. His body seemed ever eager at the prospect of early retirement, maybe a cushy position back in Tevinter government where he could be a public talking piece, representing a minority opinion but trying to put some good back in his homeland's reputation.

 

 _Anything's better than awakening to the squawking of wild birds and pine cones digging into one's rear,_ he couldn't help but think.

 

Yet taking a look around him, at the canopy of trees, the crispness of the air that passed into his lungs, it made him rather wistful at the prospect of giving this all up. Not that he would ever admit that he deserved anything less than fine silks and decadent wine, but there was something wildly charming about giving up life's finery and venturing across the known world to make a difference.

 

Exchanging a small smile with Lavellan, who was adjusting her pack, he couldn't think of a finer group of people he'd rather be stuck out here with.

 

“You seem rather chipper this morning,” Lavellan remarked.

 

Dorian chuckled. “I believe I'm having one of those rare epiphanies. Something along the lines of the virtues in taking 'the road less traveled', or whatever the poets say.”

 

“ _Nuva ma vena mar vhenas,”_ Lavellan said, smiling fondly at the words. “'May you always find your way home.' When you grow weary of the 'road less traveled', that is.”

 

Longing twisted in his gut, for a land he had sworn off when he had left but was still as much a part of him as the blood that flowed thick in his veins. _Home._ His was one where facades shaped character, where the length of one's ears and connection to the Fade determined who remained chained to society's lowest social tiers and who would reap the benefits of status. It was a land as flawed as any other, with its own prejudices and wars, as unwelcoming as it could be opportune, for those of a specific skill set.

 

It was everything wrong with Thedas and yet everything that Dorian was. And despite how he loved to hate the land from which he hailed, he missed it with a yearning that not even wine could silence.

 

Kneeling beside the Inquisitor, Dorian asked, softly, “Do you ever miss the life you had before all this, dreary as it must have been without my wonderful self to brighten your day?”

 

She laughed at his levity, but it didn't stop her lips from pulling into a smile more melancholic than it was uplifting. “I do. Dull as life is in a clan without my favorite Tevinter, there are times when I miss them terribly.”

 

The silence that followed was contemplative, both trying to ease their homesickness with lighter topics. Dorian, who had assumed duties as the default healer in the party, as sloppy as his potion making skills were, found that he was running low on elfroot, among other ingredients he had been researching for a potential potion. When his inquiry into the treetop camp's supplies yielded no results, he announced a brief interlude in their packing to restock his provisions in the forest below.

 

“You know, I could use some kindling to make arrows,” Varric said.

 

“If there's one thing a forest is generally in abundance of, it is sticks,” Dorian said.

 

Varric grinned, clapping the mage's upper arm. “Great! Bring back whatever you can find, Sparkler.”

 

“ _Venhedis_ , I am not going on a scavenger hunt for your sticks!”

 

“I'll accompany you,” Cassandra sighed, standing off the bench from where she had been sharpening her sword. “Besides, would you much rather have a smart-mouthed dwarf using you for bait at every sign of trouble? Or would you prefer my blade?”

 

 _The dwarf,_ he thought, too quickly.

 

“It worked last time, Seeker!” Varric complained. “Sparkles lured away the giant with shiny magic, I felled it with arrows. Nobody got hurt.”

 

“It is _not_ a strategy I would ever see employed again,” Cassandra said, sheathing her sword. “The only thing distracting about Dorian should be his mouth and it's something I prefer he use as little as possible.”

 

“I must protest!” Dorian argued, feigning offense. “I'll have you know that my handsome face alone is enough to start wars and bring kings to their knees. And may I say, I most love it when they are _on their knees_.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

Stomping over to the lift, Cassandra barely waited for Dorian to accompany her before she had it lowered to the basin forest floor. Outside of some barely audbile mumbling about her misfortune over volunteering to assist him, the two hardly said anything. The mage recalled, with far too much clarity, the vicious tongue lashing he had received when the Seeker had called him out for sleeping with Cullen back at Skyhold. He had no interest in conversing more than necessary, especially now that he was stuck alone with her.

 

Almost immediately when the lift stopped, Dorian took off towards the river's edge. He had seen some arbor blessing growing on nearby rocks the day before and needed the herb for his little side project he was working on. It was some time that he picked at whatever herbs he could find: elfroot, spindleweed, even managing to gather a stalk of felandaris, before Cassandra broke the silence that had persisted between them.

 

“I saw the Lieutenant leaving your tent the other night,” she remarked.

 

Dorian froze, fingers wrapped around the elfroot plant he was picking. Coming from anyone else, it may have sounded like idle gossip. But there was a warning underlying the curious tone of the Seeker's voice, disapproval even before she heard confirmation of her accusation.

 

Dorian went for nonchalant, providing little in the way of details. “The Lieutenant was in my tent, yes. Briefly.”

 

“How curious,” she continued. Picking up a few more fallen branches she considered suitable for arrow making (and really, Dorian was dying to comment on how she had ended up doing the dwarf's bidding but had a feeling that the passive-aggressive remarks she would later direct at Varric for his laziness would be anything but pleasant), she seemed to contemplate her line of inquiry before adding, “I had thought you had interest in the Commander.”

 

“What transpires between the Commander and I is hardly any of your business,” Dorian said quickly, snapping the elfroot stem more viciously than he intended.

 

He heard the sticks dropped in a pile, the Seeker striding over, steps full of purpose, posture ready to strike, should Dorian give her reason. Cassandra was shit at beating around the bush, her patience for such things making her a disaster in political circles. But she was intimidating in a way that had Dorian flinching beneath her withering stare, the finger she jabbed into his chest near-bruising.

 

“If it involves Cullen, then I make it my business,” she said, defensively. “I've seen how you flirt and toy with men, Dorian. And even if nothing comes of your tasteless behavior, I'll not have you treat the Commander as if he's disposable.”

 

There was an irony in all this that had Dorian wanting to guffaw until his chest hurt, the bitterness he had carried over the last year congealing in his stomach like spoiled food, for all the times he had been left wanting while Cullen kept him at arm's length, refusing to give word to what they had become. For as spineless as Dorian could be when it came to voicing his affection, he was still the one who always went back to Cullen, even when the Commander had been the one to shatter what was between them with careless disregard.

 

“So I will only ask this once: what are your intentions with Cullen?”

 

_Andraste's tits, is she really asking me this?_

 

Dorian gaped at her, for as long as it took to be struck with the clarity of how ridiculous he must look. Clearing his throat, he thought for a moment on how to respond and found, to his absolute horror, that he was actually blushing.

 

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he swore, shoving the elfroot into his pouch.

 

“That's not an answer.”

 

He tried to storm past her but the firm grip on his robes pulled him back, forcing him to make eye contact with her. The displeasure in her stare made him feel like some school boy, caught with his hands in his trousers. He had no idea how to placate her, not even certain himself of what was between him and Cullen.

 

“Dorian.”

 

“I don't know,” he snapped, pulling out of her grip. “But if it gives you some peace of mind, nothing happened between the Lieutenant and I. I...stopped it.”

 

He may as well have had his affection for Cullen pressed into his skin like the vallaslin worn by the Dalish. To even leave the suggestion that the Commander had anything to do with him not sleeping with Farrow felt too honest, too personal, in a way he'd never been with the Seeker.

 

There was a tiny smile on Cassandra's face, like she was privy to a secret that not even Dorian knew. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, the Seeker's eyes narrowing once more.

 

“I will drop this and let you decide for yourself what you intend to do,” Cassandra decided. But she wouldn't be the towering, terrifying mass of pure warrior if she didn't leave him intimidated enough to piss in his own boots. “But know this, _mage_ : you hurt him, and I will break you in ways you can't even imagine.”

 

Bending down to retrieve the sticks she had dropped, Cassandra gave a mere nod of her head, letting Dorian know she was ready to return to the camp. Once she was walking away from him, Dorian released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, following reluctantly towards the lift.

 

 _Kaffas!_ What has he gotten himself into?

 

* * *

The return to Skyhold took even longer than expected, with many stops taken at Inquisition outposts along the way. With the research on Ameridan being mostly concluded, the party remained with Kenric for a few days, following up on any questions he had about the spirits they had encountered and the Hakkonites themselves. Colette, Kenric's assistant, had also returned from where she had been surveying the Tevinter ruins and spent every spare moment following Dorian around the camp, asking him anything and everything under the sun about Tevinter's architecture. After the fourth day, even Dorian grew tired of his own voice and almost welcomed the return trip through the mountain pass.

 

The journey back was, luckily, mostly uneventful. Besides having to avoid the occasional onerous bear (and, really, was it just him or did all _ursus_ seem to have it out for him?), their greatest challenge was building sufficient shelter between the outposts to withstand the worst of the harsh mountain climate. It was during one such storm where Dorian and Varric were tucked into their tent, heating runes providing a faint source of warmth, that the mage couldn't help his foul thoughts of how miserable it would be to die out here like this.

 

“You know, there are smarter ways to w-w-weather this out than fr-fr-freezing our asses off,” Varric shivered.

 

With an annoyed huff, Dorian scooted closer to Varric beneath their shared blanket, throwing an arm around the drawf's waist and tucking in behind him. Sharing their bedrolls had been Dorian's idea, in the hopes that pooling their body heat in a confined space would be sufficient to avoid _this_ particular situation. But even the mage had to admit it hadn't been enough.

 

“Not a w-w-word. T-t-to anyone. Ever,” he hissed into the dwarf's hair.

 

“Y-y-you really n-n-n-eed to w-w-work on your b-b-bedside m-m-manner, Sparkler,” the dwarf joked.

 

Dorian had a quip about how adequate his bedside manner was but he was too exhausted and cold to continue the banter.

 

When they were only a day's trek from the keep, Dorian finally got around to brewing the potion he had been working on. With only a limited amount of herbs to work with, he had to tweak the recipe and managed to make enough for a single use. It was late into the evening, tucked close to the fire to keep the cold from seeping into his gloved hands, that Cassandra decided to break the silence that had prevailed between them since the Basin, her curiosity getting the better of her.

 

“What is it you've been brewing?”

 

She had watched for the better part of an hour as Dorian had been stirring the potion, and later bottling it, in an empty glass vial. When her eyes hadn't been glancing at his handiwork, they had scanned the surrounding vast whiteness that spread in all directions, ever vigilant should danger approach.

 

“A dreamless sleeping draught, with a few modifications. A bit of a Tevinter's touch and that ensures its superiority to any similar concoction I could find in the South.”

 

“I hadn't been aware you had an affinity for potions,” Cassandra said, quirking a brow. “What could you possibly need a sleeping draught for? It's already a challenge dragging you out of your tent in the mornings, without the consumption of such potions.”

 

The mage had gotten better at arising when the Seeker barked at him to stop wasting everyone's morning while he attempted to sleep in, not one to push his luck and see any of her threats come to fruition. It was a point of pride that he wish she would acknowledge, if only so he could preen over his transformation into a 'hardened adventure' (he was sure all within the current party would openly laugh should he ever use such a term to describe himself), but he knew that unless he was awakening of his own volition at the crack of dawn, he would gain none of the Seeker's favor.

 

“It's not for me,” he said carefully, tucking the vial in his pouch.

 

He was shocked to see something like approval on her face, a softening in her gaze as she likely made the connection. Maybe Varric had been right and the Seeker was a romantic under that tough exterior.

 

The next evening saw the party escorted through the gates of Skyhold, accompanied by a small regiment from an outpost only half a day from the keep. Greetings were exchanged by the Inner Circle and the war council, friends eager to reunite after nearly two months of separation. Dorian tried to remain steady on his wavering legs, exhaustion burned so deep in his bones, he could collapse at any moment in the courtyard. He already dreaded all the stairs he would need to take to get to his room, the bath he would have to draw before steaming water would give his tired muscles relief. With a smile that took enough effort to make his face hurt, he went through the required string of pleasantries as quickly as he could so that social etiquette could be satisfied and he could excuse himself without slighting any of his companions.

 

But just as he was making his retreat, his eyes found a pair of golden hue, once deathly sharp cheeks filled with a new kind of vigor he hadn't seen in near as long as he could remember. Blond curls painstakingly tamed with oils, stubble kept to its preferred length, Cullen looked every inch of the handsome symbol Dorian had first met in Haven, the Lion of Fereldan, the brilliant tactician behind the Inquisition's militia.

 

He wasn't certain what had brought on this new change in the Commander, the return to form. Was it his absence? Had Dorian been not the receptor of the Fereldan's shame but a catalyst that exacerbated the effects of his withdrawals?

 

...was Cullen truly better off without him?

 

There was a flicker of something on the Commander's face, something that made Dorian's throat too heavy to speak words that otherwise needed to be said: longing.

 

And he remembered the desperation, the ferocity of those three words Cullen had said, filling in the final pieces of a puzzle left unfinished each time either of them had pulled away, chest weighted with the possibilities, if only honesty could be given voice.

 

It rang with as much clarity in his own heart as it had when it was said by the other man only two months before.

 

_I love you, too._

 

And just admitting it in his own mind was as terrifying as if he had said it aloud among his friends. It was what made him turn away, excuses of exhaustion spilling off his tongue, and start his climb up the stairs into the main part of the keep, if only so he could avoid revealing the affection he felt, the kind he had always believed was not meant for men like him.

 

* * *

The next night found Dorian well-rested and bathed, pacing about his room with the vial in hand. Every once in a while, he would pause, stare down at it as if it held an answer he was seeking, and then resume the path he had subconsciously mapped around his quarters. He hadn't wanted to believe that there was a chance, dreaded that his presence would only bring about old arguments or arrangements he would no longer find satisfaction in, but time had weakened his pride and he knew he had to see Cullen at some point. And if the look the Commander had given him the night before meant anything...

 

No longer willing to endure this endless cycle of self-doubt, Dorian left his room and set a brisk pace for the Commander's office. The night air felt as cold as ever against his thin tunic, an arm bared and exposed to its unforgiving bite. That it made him appear a bit more dashing in his expert opinion (Varric be damned, he was the best dressed of this lot and had taken the drawf's refusal to answer as the only confirmation he needed) would work to inflate an ego that always faltered in Cullen's presence. And right now, Dorian needed all the confidence he could gather.

 

Still clutching the draught, he used his free hand to knock on the Commander's door. He no longer tried to sneak by patrolling soldiers on the battlements, had even nodded cordially to a pair on his way to the side entrance. By now, many of those who served had heard enough of the rumors and had drawn their own conclusions so let them think what they will of the Tevinter mage visiting the Inquisition Commander in the dead of night. At least, he tried telling himself the smug look passed between them didn't trigger old fears that settled like a winter storm nipping at his sensitive flesh, dread that washed over him in waves at the prospect of _they know_.

 

He heard the Commander's voice beckoning him to enter and just the sound of it through the oaken door was enough to set off the insecurity he had been trying to swallow, terrify him into questioning his intent. But the part of him that yearned to hear that voice reaffirm the confessions laid bare in that same room had Dorian charging forward instead of escaping, ready to put his self torture of _what's next?_ to rest.

 

“Good evening, Commander,” Dorian started, taking careful steps towards the desk. He stopped in front of it, nonchalant grin on his face wavering as he drank in the sight of the man whose touch he missed with the fervor of a wanderer dying of thirst in the Hissing Wastes. “You look...”

 

The lines that had long looked stark on skin kissed paler than the moon, cheeks gone hollow from lack of sustenance, had softened with new color, eyes bright and sharp with the same intensity that always made Dorian feel as if he was drowning in liquid honey. Everything about the Commander's form, posture straighter from where he stood on the other side of the desk, filling in his clothing in a way he hadn't for many months, spoke of renewal, of a change that may have had everything and nothing to do with the mage.

 

Cullen looked as handsome as he ever had, healthier than he ever did. And kaffas if that didn't make Dorian feel like shit for having walked out on him, having turned his back when the Commander had finally tried to reach out to him for help.

 

“...well,” Dorian finished, feeling a bit awkward. “Quite well, actually.”

 

A strange look passed over the Commander's face, gone almost as soon as it had appeared. “I've been getting better. Or, trying to.”

 

The uncomfortable silence they slipped into made the air feel congested, distasteful. Dorian looked down to what he was holding, mind racing with anything he could say. He was good at filling silences with inane diatribes about anything and nothing. Plus, he was rather fond of the sound of his own voice. But this was a defense mechanism he often fell back on, filling a void with nonsense instead of meaning. He wasn't going to do that this time.

 

“I brought this for you,” he said, presenting the vial to Cullen. Its pink contents appeared orange in the candlelit office, light bouncing off the glass. “A dreamless sleeping draught.”

 

For a brief instant, their fingers brushed. It sent a delicate trill along his skin, made his pulse quicken, expression soften as he watch the Commander accept the gift, the only excuse Dorian could conjure to make the trip to the tower.

 

“I—thank you, Dorian,” Cullen said, voice soft.

 

The melancholic smile on the Commander's face made Dorian want to run his fingers through the man's hair, chase any hint of sadness with promises he intended to keep, hold him through any more terrors that made the nights longer than they should be. They shouldn't be like this, standing on a precipice, clinging to the phantoms of uncertainty that made them too afraid to have anything other than this undefined tension that often exploded when they tried to define it. Dorian wanted certainty, wanted the clarity that came with confession, even if it still terrified him.

 

“I've researched into what is often used in the south, even had a rather delightful uplifting conversation this afternoon with the lovely tranquil Minaeve—a sassy woman in her own right—on the effectiveness of altering such a concoction,” Dorian added, going for levity to avoid shuddering at how unnerving he found most tranquil, how it made maybe a small part of him want to hate those in the templar order who oversaw such procedures, condemn the magically inclined to a life of listless service in the same prisons that saw them unfit to keep their own mind.

 

 _Mustn't think of the moral repercussions of sleeping with someone who most likely has ordered mages to be made tranquil. Not now,_ he reminded himself.

 

“A typical dreamless sleeping draught may be used to incur prolonged periods of uninterrupted sleep, in essence, briefly separating one's connection to the Fade as they rest. Most often, these potions are used by patients recovering from severe battle wounds or illnesses while in the care of healers. They are quite potent but come with many adverse effects: nausea, drowsiness, vomiting, random instances of vertigo, indigestion, severe short-term memory loss—”

 

“In other words, all the things that would prevent me from commanding effectively,” Cullen said, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “It's why I had never used this stuff before, as some of these are symptoms I've experienced with the withdrawals.”

 

“Precisely,” Dorian said, pinching the tip of his mustache. “The combination would have only exacerbated your withdrawals. It's why I've had to tweak the draught. Arbor blessing shares similar properties with Andraste's Grace, albeit with much lower rates of success in having the user fall into dreamless sleep. I have used it sparingly in the recipe, to also reduce any potential side effects even if it proves ineffective.”

 

Cullen looked at the vial he held.

 

“You made this. For me.”

 

His voice was thick, catching on his throat.

 

“Of course I did.”

 

The unquestioning devotion in Dorian's voice was an unspoken promise. Because he knew he would do anything to help Cullen on his road to recovery.

 

The Commander cleared his throat, blinking a few times, unable to chase the mistiness in his eyes when he returned Dorian's gaze. “And this is what brought you to my office this evening?”

 

His voice wavered, fragile hope, waiting to be dashed should the mage remain stubborn to words uttered in their last conversation.

 

“There's...something else.”

 

Dorian knew he had to say it, before he lost his nerve.

 

“I love you.”

 

He was shaking, his lips trembling. For so long, he had known this. And yet, his insecurity had always held him back, made him terrified of what it would mean if he even admitted it to himself. His pulse raced, heart pounding so loudly, he felt certain it would burst in his chest. Somehow, saying it out loud made it that much more _real._

 

Cullen, who hadn't said anything, stood silently behind his desk. Dorian could see how the Commander's fingers trembled around the vial he was holding, the look of surprise that made his eyes widen ever slightly.

 

When only silence followed his confession, Dorian filled it with an apology that was long overdue. “And I...I'm sorry. For not saying it sooner. Maker help me, I've been such a fool.”

 

He met Cullen's gaze, only to see the Commander's eyes drop, watch with intense interest as he placed the sleeping draught on his desk. It made Dorian's throat feel thick, a sadness settle deep inside of him. Here he was, trying to put into words how miserable he had made himself, and yet Cullen must have still felt the slight of how the mage had denied him, so much that he wouldn't even look at him.

 

“I know we hadn't left things off on the best of terms,” Dorian tried again, unable to hold back the crack that made his confidence waver. “I should have been more understanding. I should have—”

 

But all of it felt hollow, everything he _could have done_ being something that he wouldn't have because Dorian was the kind of man who would always make the same mistakes, only trying when he knew it was too late.

 

He swallowed hard, pausing to blink back the sting in his eyes. Even if this was the end, he had to make things right.

 

“I should have been there for you. And I will be. In any way that you need me, even if it's only as a friend.”

 

Stepping closer to Cullen, Dorian reached out and grasped the Commander's hand, squeezing it gently. It hurt to think of how right it felt to place his hand in his, entwine their fingers and know that this was the most they would ever be, if even that. The mage could only stare helplessly at where they were connected, as he felt everything slipping away.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen whispered.

 

Gentle fingers tilted his chin up, forcing him to look into the Fereldan's eyes. He could see yearning in brown eyes flecked with gold, felt trepidation in the shaky breath that caressed his lips like a secret pressed against his skin. He longed to close the distance, fold into the Commander's arms and forget his own brashness in having walked away. But he was left frozen, uncertain, hope as flimsy as a shriveled leaf clinging to a branch against an unrelenting breeze.

 

“I don't deserve you,” Cullen said, “Maker, the way I've treated you...”

 

But the mage wasn't about to let the Commander's guilt or his shame separate them any longer. Drawing in closer, lips barely brushing the Fereldan's, Dorian whispered, “Do you still mean what you said the last time I was here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

It was breathless, heady, the affirmation that tickled against his skin, dizzying in how such a simple word could embody everything the Commander felt. Dorian didn't need to hear him say it again, in some ways, felt emboldened by the fact that he just _knew_. All he needed was the arm that snaked around his waist, the nose that gently bumped his, eyes that shone with the weight of it all lifted off their shoulders.

 

“Then that's all I need,” Dorian said, unable to resist any longer. His sigh was soft, the feel of Cullen's lips soothing the ache he had carried with him each moment he had been away from Skyhold, left with only his mind to twist every scenario that could go wrong, convince him that voicing the hurt he had endured for so long had destroyed what they had, just as he was coming to accept what that was. It had left him feeling empty, listless and without purpose, to be without the ex-templar, to have made the _choice_ to be without him _._ For in the rare moments when Cullen had let down his guard, bared his heart in the tenderness he inflicted on the mage's flesh, it was the closest Dorian had ever found to a place where he belonged in the dreariness of the south.

 

It was what he was feeling now, even as there was an urgency to the lips that pressed to his, to the tongue that sought entrance, a soft groan when it was rewarded. Falling into arms that held him securely against a solid chest, his relief was a whimpered groan, lost in that final crossing, that return to _home._

 

“I've missed you,” Cullen said, as he pulled back. His fingers brushed aside a strand of hair that fell loose from the mage's coif.

 

“I've missed you, too, _amatus_.”

 

Cullen's smile widened.

 

The back of his thighs hit the desk, Cullen pressing in so Dorian could feel how much the Commander wanted him, arousal hard and heavy as it brushed over his. The gasp in the mage's throat was silenced by an invasive tongue, slipping through his lips, stroking his in ways that had his mind imagining all the places he wanted that tongue to trace over his skin. His hands grasped Cullen's ass, pulling him closer, kneading flesh hidden by obtrusive leather.

 

“Not here,” Cullen whispered, pulling back to catch his breath. He kissed Dorian once more, chastely, eyes sparkling in the low light of the dimming candles. “Come.”

 

Dorian wanted to bemoan the loss of the Commander's solid frame against him, eager to disrobe and bend over, stretch himself for his lover and feel Cullen sink into him. But the soft expression on the Fereldan's face, the almost shyness at which he offered his hand to the mage, made Dorian melt a little on the inside. He'd never admit to himself how his pulse skipped when he slid his hand in Cullen's, how utterly endearing he found the Commander in that moment as he was led to the ladder, the care at which Cullen took in slowly sliding the tunic over Dorian's chest, because Dorian was not a romantic. In fact, he spurned such behavior, found it absolutely appalling and frivolous how anyone could waste such time when there was zealous fucking to be had.

 

“Cullen?” Dorian questioned, quirking a brow as Cullen continued to slowly remove Dorian's clothing, kissing tenderly at newly exposed skin, his lips worshiping the mage's flesh reverently.

 

Down on his knees, Cullen finished pulling off Dorian's trousers and smalls, then began to pepper the mages inner thigh with a string of kisses. The Tevinter let in a sharp intake of breath as Cullen's lips neared his heavy cock, hand on the Commander's shoulder steadying him as a shiver trickled over his skin. He looked down at those golden eyes, wide and earnest, smile gentle.

 

“Just...let me enjoy you.”

 

It was more request than statement, an invitation to continue toward something neither had done before. All their intimacy could be summed up as rushed instances of flurried passion, quick and discreet, the guise of 'distraction' and 'stress relief' removing the emotional equation out of anything that transpired between them. Dorian knew that if he consented, it would change everything.

 

His consent could not be uttered, for his throat felt too thick to form words, his chest so heavy with adoration, he felt swept up in affection that any voice he could give to it would fall short of defining it. So all he did was nod.

 

 _Fasta vass_ , maybe he was a silly romantic at heart.

 

The initial drag of the Commander's tongue over the mage's cock had a strangled moan ripping from Dorian's throat. Gripping the base of the erect shaft, Cullen mouthed over the head, slowly pulling his lips around it until it was sliding easily towards the back of his throat. Hollowing out his cheeks, he bobbed his head along the length, setting a careful pace, tongue laving against the sensitive underside of the head. Each time he brushed that spot, it would elicit the tiniest of whimpers from the mage, fingers tangling into golden curls so Dorian could keep his balance. Already, his knees wobbled and he had to use his other hand to steady himself, gripping tightly on Cullen's shoulder to keep from collapsing. He nearly came undone when a hand began stroking the base of his cock.

 

“ _Kaffas_!” he choked out, tugging harder than he had intended on thick curls.

 

But if it hurt, the Commander gave no indication of discomfort. He merely grunted, slowed his wrist just as Dorian was nearing the edge, mouth popping off the Tevinter's cock with a salacious slurp. To say Dorian was near wrecked from being denied release would undermine how rough his voice sounded as he trembled within the Commander's firm grip.

 

“The oil, please,” Cullen said, acting as if he hadn't heard the disappointment in Dorian's voice. He indicated to the small vial on his nightstand, hint of a smirk on his lips.

 

That he looked damn proud of the state he had put Dorian in is what kept the mage from begging, made him control the gasp that echoed at the back of his throat, another quick flick of the Commander's wrist sending a ripple of pleasure straight to his abdomen. Shaking fingers stretched out to retrieve the vial, handing it down to Cullen, who then used his free hand to uncork it and dip his fingers inside. Once generously soaked, they moved between Dorian's cheeks, pressing lightly against his entrance, evoking a tiny hiss.

 

“Must you take your precious time?” Dorian asked, feigning control as he quirked a brow down at the ex-templar.

 

This time, the corner of his lip where the scar touched, lifted. “I thought we agreed that I'd get to enjoy you.”

 

And as a finger pushed in, past the first ring of muscle, Dorian swore, holding the Commander so tightly, he knew that his grip would have left bruises, were the Fereldan not still fully clothed. It was almost unfair that he had yet to run his hands over pale skin, marked by a lifetime's worth of battles, press bare flesh to bare flesh as he fell into the arms of his _amatus_ , the only man who had ever earned that title from him. So as another finger began to probe inside of him, preparing him for the inevitable tumble within the Commander's sheets (the only sheets, Dorian realized quite startlingly, he ever wished to tumble in from now on), the mage began to unclasp the many buckles of his tunic, slide the material from his arms as he whispered Cullen's name, the only confession he would ever make to the Maker.

 

Once he was fully stretched, Dorian pulled away from Cullen, repositioning himself on his hands and knees on the bed, ass facing the Commander. He heard shuffling behind him, clothes being discarded, a low grunt as Cullen coated his own erection with the oil. Any moment now, he would expect to feel the Commander's oil-slicked cock push against his entrance, claiming him in a position that had always made this easier for them, maybe because it lacked the intimacy of having to face the mage as the ex-templar fucked him into the desk, the mattress, or whatever surface they deemed suitable for their illicit activities.

 

It was unexpected, then, when Cullen tapped Dorian's shoulder, motioning for the mage to sit up so the Commander could pull him into his lap. Dorian was mystified by the way Cullen was looking at him, straddling the Fereldan's hips so he was seated comfortably in a position he rarely took during sex. He wiggled his ass against the Commander's erection, eliciting a soft hiss from the blond.

 

“I don't believe we've tried this one before,” Dorian all but purred, arms flung casually over Cullen's shoulders.

 

“Is this alright?” Cullen asked, hint of a frown on his lips. “I want to see you while I—that is, while we...”

 

Dorian's heart thudded loudly, gaze softening as he looked into the Commander's eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

He had to shift his hips, align himself so he was sitting directly over the tip of Cullen's cock. With a shaky exhale, he pressed down, gasping low when the first ring of resistance was breached. He paused for only a second, savoring the thickness of the erection's head, before sinking down the rest of the way, sating his months long ache to feel the Commander fill him. A groan spilled off Cullen's lips, light quiver in his hips as Dorian seated himself on him. But it was the look of raw, unbridled adoration on the Fereldan's face that made Dorian feel bared and exposed, cheeks heating to the point where he wanted to look away, caught in a wave of sudden shyness. But he didn't want to break the intensity of the Commander's gaze, heart racing with the knowledge that he was the one evoked such affection.

 

Lifting his hips, he slid up and then pushed himself down, moaning at the delicious burn, the tight squeeze as he fitted around the Commander's length. Lips found unblemished skin, nipping and teasing his neck as Dorian slowly began to move, Cullen's hands on his hips guiding the mage back down each time onto his cock. Dorian's response to the marks left on his skin, to the gentle thrust of the Commander's hips rolling up to meet his, was a cacophony of pleasure that tumbled off his lips. So overwhelming was his desire to taste the Commander's lips that Dorian's hand tugged lightly at Cullen's hair, pulling him away from the mage's neck and kissing him fiercely. It was breathless and wanton, sound dying to a low rumble in his throat, arms wrapping tight around muscled shoulders to pull his lover solidly against his chest as he continued to ride him.

 

“So beautiful,” Cullen panted against Dorian's lips.

 

“ _Amatus_ ,” was all Dorian could whimper.

 

A hard thrust upwards and Dorian was throwing his head back, voicing approval with a debauched sound that bounced off the walls of the loft. He could feel the building of warmth in his center, delirious pleasure bursting into a dull ache, a cry for a release, but he needed more to get there, needed a steady hand to guide him to the bliss he sought.

 

When he felt a hand slide in the space between them, lubricated with the oil Cullen always kept nearby, Dorian nearly came from the feel of those long, thick fingers wrapping around his arousal. A few quick strokes was all it took to send him over the edge, the Commander's name his response to the explosion of heat that sent tendrils of warmth spilling off his cock, painting Cullen's chest. He dropped his head to the Fereldan's shoulder, soft whimpers buried in sweat-glistened skin, as he road out each euphoric wave that left him trembling in the Commander's arms.

 

It was too much for Cullen, the way Dorian tightened around him. Before long, the Tevinter mage felt the splash of wet heat as the Commander finished inside of him, crying out with each upward roll until he was spent. His breathless shudder tickled the skin on Dorian's neck, face buried there as he began to whisper softly, indecipherable like secrets he hid in his lover's flesh.

 

The clung to each other for some time, the fading glow from the candles in the office below a faint light that trickled up the walls of the loft, abandoning the lovers to the shadows of the dark corners of the room. Dorian had once relished the shadows for he would hide the most shameful parts of himself in those places, succumbing to temptations of the flesh behind closed doors, away from his father's judgment. He had known better than to hope for anything more than what the shadows had to offer, a brief tryst, a taste of everything he would never be able to claim as his.

 

But as he pulled off of Cullen, fell back against the pillows, he looked up to the man who leaned over him, this barbaric Fereldan he loved enough to put himself through the humiliation of rejection before, and knew he needed more than the promise of another night.

 

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, brushing his fingers through disheveled, raven locks. He must have noticed the troubled look on the mage's face, even in the darkness of the loft, for the concern that slipped in his voice. “You look a bit...troubled.”

 

“I suppose I am,” Dorian murmured, reaching up to stop the Commander's hand. Fear made him want to stifle his own voice and yet, he found himself lacing his fingers with Cullen's, looking into the face of the only man who now wielded the power to shatter him completely. “I've learned not to hope for more. And yet...”

 

“I love you, Dorian.”

 

He said it with unshakable certainty, squeezing the mage's hand. And it sounded no less sweeter than it had when Cullen had first uttered them, made his eyes mist and throat tighten with emotion he was too weak to give voice to. So he simply squeezed back, looked up into the eyes of his lover, his _amatus._

 

“And I want to do things _right_ this time.”

 

And as Cullen lay beside him, pulling Dorian into his embrace, and pressed a kiss in the mage's hair, Dorian was still afraid, terrified of venturing down a path he had never traveled. But maybe, sometimes, it was good to be afraid.

 


End file.
